Before I Die;

7.

7: (31/03) ~*~I wrote this on my phone one Sunday in March and forgot to upload it.~*~

"Easily Forgotten"

If you were an artist I'd decorate my walls with your colours

and let you sketch me while I read.

If you were a writer, I'd read all the delicate words you wrote

with all of my care.

I'd be honest when needed, 

and I'd handle your fragile words as if they were glass in a box,

or give you something to write about

when imagination fails you.

And if you were a singer, 

I'd follow you to all your gigs 

and be there smiling when you looked through the crowd.

I would pretend I was still sleeping

and wouldn't get mad when I woke 

as you play guitar 

in bed at five in the morning.

But you're nothing special

and you don't paint. 

You don't listen to music

and you don't have time to read.

Instead,

you walk down streets with signs

and stand under sunny, blue skies.

Yet still,

you're afraid of being hit by

lightning.

But you shouldn't worry, because the lightning

will never get you.

You're just not that tall.

(B.C)