I never write a song,
Until I feel cold and alone.
I never write a song,
Because my heart is like a stone.
I never write the rhymes,
unless I feel butterflies,
I never write rhymes,
but you killed it all, even the fireflies.
This is an ode,
To fireflies and butterflies,
They have slept for so long,
And shortly lived their lives.
This isn't a poem,
this is a burial,
much less a song,
For destroying something real.
This isn't a song,
You sold the dreams,
now I can't sleep,
I know how it seems.
This isn't goodbye,
as I may yet have hope,
That you will stop running,
And come back to my hearts' home.
