They call you their villain, you're convinced you're the hero.

Hero.

You see what they need,

You beg for their love.

You planted the seed,

You sent out the dove.

Villain.

You begged and fell alone,

Now you bring them to their knees.

Finally taking what you're owed.

Won't listen to their pleas.

Hero.

You don't need anything.

You fall to help them up.

Now you're down on your knees

So they'll see you're not corrupt.

Villain.

Can't listen to yourself.

Have to be the better one.

Put your own life on the shelf.

Close your eyes until it's done.

Can't stop. Can't stop. Can't stop.

Now they call you their hero, you're still your own villain.

There's a girl who would dream of sitting on a cloud

So she could look down and watch the world pass by.

Because the voices around her were deafeningly loud

And it would be quiet alone in the sky.

And the girl got her wish and looked down at the earth,

And in the absence of sound, her head began to pound

Without any tethers, she questioned her worth.

So she screamed just to hear another sound.

And her cry became the thunder,

And her tears fell down as rain,

And they threatened to pull her under

Unless she'd live again.

And so she had no choice but to let herself fall,

Back to the noise and work and pain

Because alone in her storm with no one to call,

She could only hope to get lost in the rain.

I like to think we were in love,

I and the girl so different than me--

Torn leather jacket, one fingerless glove.

My babydoll dress to her faded blue jeans.

She cared too much, it dragged her under,

Played with fire and ice to mask her fears.

Her wishes drowned out by rolling thunder,

Only I could see her dried-up tears.

I believe we were in love, once,

Before she was blinded by a world of weapons.

But her cautious love was the devil's last chance

To steal her away from the pillars of Heaven.

It seemed that she was gone already

As I shut my eyes and wished her well.

And I heard the engine in her '57 Chevy

As she ran from love like a bat out of Hell.

There's an end to go with

Every beginning.

And despair that shows in

All our hope.

There's a weed that grows

For every flower.

And a drop to follow

Every rise.

A sheer cliff when

You least expect it.

And some that stand

Safe on the top.

Then there's those

Who

let

themselves

fall

To find the treasure

At the bottom.

And the treasure

is

the pain.

I can't let go.

If I say no,

I'm free to go.

But I'm still here.

Left me alone

With all the ghosts

In beauty cloaked.

I'm one myself.

Inside, we're waiting

For someone to appear.

To stop our fading

Before we disappear.

But they go right through me,

Cause they're just photographs.

But they seem so free

From all I struggle with.

One thing, another,

I'm gliding on the surface.

Their perfect summer,

Or this life that has no purpose?

I think I'll pass.

Just take my time

To pay for this world of perfect glass.

And if it shatters, I'll fall, can't climb,

And they will keep my time.

Could I let go?

I set it down.

I'm free to go.

I look around.

This world of ghosts

Searching for highs,

Erase the lows,

Keep their disguise.

Inside, they're waiting

For someone to appear

To stop their fading

Before they disappear.

They see the skies

Through a perfect filtered lens

That closes their eyes

As the glass starts to descend.

And when it shatters,

Will they feel regret,

That all that matters,

They let themselves forget.

They can let go.

Look up, see grey,

But colors grow.

There's still today.

This world of ghosts,

They come alive.

Take off their cloaks,

Start to revive.

Magic isn't ice or fire.Magic isn't ice or fire.

It's the lights that dance in your eyes.

Magic is that hidden desire,

One that can lead to hope or demise.

Magic is to pick up a pen,

Stare at a blank page and make it full.

Magic is to lift up your chin,

And tear away from the world's pull.

Magic isn't beauty or fame.

It's stories only you yet know.

It's the courage to leave the game

Of blending in and pomp and show.

Magic is a word on a page.

Magic is a soul agleam.

What it takes to be a mage?

Turn the page, and learn to dream.

Often a flower appears as a weed.

Sometimes the greatest of gifts can disguise

As a common thing, erased by our greed

For the ones we call pretty, the flower that complies

To the standards, the things that we tell it to be.

We turn a blind eye to the humble weed,

Growing persistently by the rushing brook.

If it grows tall, still we pay it no heed.

Desperate, it grows and it grows, and we look.

We see how it looks and we cut it, deaf to its plea.

Winter passes bleak, and come spring,

The flowers we watered and told what to be

Are gone to the world, nothing more to bring.

But the weed pushes through, ever wild and free.

A fall of stars, aglow in their tragedy,

A sheer curtain of light, a mist that transforms.

A distant thunderclap murmurs, eerie,

And the whipping wind promises storms.

A strange calm falls over me now

Amid the golden raindrops,

Though thunderclouds loom and all the trees bow,

The upcoming chaos, for a moment, stops.

And the world is still, and the sun is beaming,

And the rain is cool on my heat-flushed skin,

A reminder that even a storm seems gleaming,

When the light of the sun illuminates what's within.