The World's So Green, 'Cause You're Holding Hands With Me.

I guess sometimes I feel let down.
But most of the time I feel hopeful.
Because by some strange act of fate,
I have you in my life.

This is not a poem.
This is my mind.

You write songs perfectly.
I don't think I ever told you
How much I love hearing you sing.
Well, I do. I love it, love you.

When you draw you stick
your tongue out and squint
focusing on the story behind it
penning pages with a picture.

"What do you think it means?"
You ask me, and I try
to think of the story in beautiful words
to do justice to the honesty in your work

Would you care to know a secret?
You're the only home I've ever had.
When I was curled up dark sienna light
Under the covers in a bed too small.

It was too early, we had stayed up late
and you kissed my forehead
and told me to go back to sleep
that you'd be back in a little while.

I don't think I've ever slept so peaceful.
I had something to look forward to.

This is not a poem.
This is my love.

I want to take care of you
and make the world brighter for you
with songs and fireflies in a jar
with radios and a warm place to sleep.

This is not a poem.
This is all for you.

Everything I ever do is for you.