mood: byron vass is the star in my eye Water Colour Heart: To state it bluntly; this is a return to the written word, a return to the saddest part of my memory and the fact that to have fallen in love is taboo. In my eyes, what am I to say, especially to you? The fact that you say good-bye to months like September, October and November; and haven't even lifted a sleeping eyelid to all the rest of the world, all the rest of the people who have fallen in love with you, I am left standing, wringing my hands, asking you this question. "Whose fault is it, but that of your own?" Today especially I can't even open my own eyes to look at you, to look at your sad face; the one that's in my dreams: ill and tired. In my dreams the heart is noticed and worn on the sleeve proud to be torn at and loved all too fitfully. And in my dreams I am able to kiss your sleeping blind eyes but in the waking hours, I can't even catch your spoken words on my tongue. I am at a place, where I'm actually convinced that my heart is bleeding these colours mimicking watered down paint, as if the tears that also fall from my eyes are the storms that we all walk through. Is it true that the only words you can say to me are through the voices of other men, who sit there sad and strumming, playing with their own thumbs? No. A mistake of mine is that my frustration is undeniable. My misdemeanor is my own fault, I become flustered at the idea of politics, at the idea of romance, at the fact that I feel my life is too SHORT and not turning out how it is supposed to be, even though this may very well be it. I'm waiting for amazement, to be swept off of my feet, to sit on your front porch and let the smoke filter through my skin, embed itself into your lips and I want to be kissed, I want to be held and my skin milked for all of its silk. A rhyme is all I have to say this with. It's like walking on glass that refuses to penetrate the skin, I want attention to be brought to my suffering, the bruising on my knees, I want attention to the blood on my feet and hands and for the sobs that are hidden in the folds of my brain to be stifled by your eyes and your words and your hands playing down the curves of my body like it was the body of a guitar.