We, the millions, suffering gladly,
Waiting so close and just out of reach.
We, the hopeless, with nothing but patience,
Bitterly waving whenever we meet.
We, the shoulders for others to cry on,
Faceless and nameless, creatures of blame.
We, the glass jars for misery vented,
Painting on smiles to drown out the shame.

She lies without sleeping, smothered in blankets,
Or stands at the window, waiting for dawn,
Or maybe for death. She's been so lonely.
The radio's crooning her favorite song.
You tell her you love her on a constant basis,
But not in the way she's been praying for.
More than anything she wants you to see her,
But knows in her heart that you deserve more.

He's been waiting backstage with silent devotion,
Picking up pieces that others discard,
Holding your hand, and maintaining you're perfect
And that cutting your hair doesn't change who you are.
Keeps telling himself that he can't wait forever,
But knows he will love you long after he dies,
Cause you are perfection, a porcelain angel
With glittering stardust under the eyes.

We, the quiet, who hover behind you,
Holding you up while the world's falling down.
We, the tattered, diseased, devastated,
No matter the heartache, we won't make a sound.
Take us for granted, use us, abuse us.
We'll never have anywhere else to be.
We, with our closets full of your secrets
And boxes of love notes you'll never see.
 
Copyright © makeitmorphine, All Rights Reserved