pages of me

I read graffiti left on cement halls
summer is the perfect illusion
though it has came many times
slant of sunlight is different I notice
on red walls
my dreams have a life of their own
they just haven't made their mind up 
yet...
the world is a large place and I have resigned
myself I won't get to see a lot of it
there are loves I have never touched
my songs wait in boxes for voices
to sing them
for music to live them
I still write letters to my parents
they are no longer here
I still mourn them
I don't really expect anyone to understand me
hope refuses to die, I can't kill it
some days I am a recluse
and I am fine with that
I like the way rain feels on my face
and how it sounds late at night on a tin roof
a midnight lullaby
there's nothing like the fragrance of a 
warm southern night
when I can't sleep I write
music is my heal and my crave
and as many times as I try to rewrite 
the story 
it always ends the same