Your Actions Are as Shameful as Your Acting Is Stunning, Jeremy

This is what she gets for letting her heart get tangled up in his web of beautifully dressed up lies. Although her mind was telling her to be cautious, she wanted so badly to believe he really did change for the better that she shut off the warning signs. The luminous light of reason was shut out by the darkness of the night he charmed her within. The danger lurks in our dreams, and she was a dreamer - he was her ashen dream. He swept her off her feet, his alluring enchantment that of a prince. She fell for him, fell believing he would catch her because he was falling too - or so she thought. In reality, he was back to his childish games he played only a year before, and she fell into every trap he set. He is the magician of love, the master of trickery.

It's funny how blind you become when your heart shuts of the warning signs that your mind fights to keep alive. If she ever had to choose though, she'd pick the fool anyday; she'll have no regrets because she was no swindler. As for 'the prince,' he'll be trapped in an everlasting hurricane of forever seventeen.

Your flame just burned out, and ashes aren't so captivating.

Your Crime Scene Was Missing Its Caution Tape

Sometimes we let our heart over power our minds, and she did. Sometimes the hardest and the tight thing are the same, but something the difficulty blurs out our ability to reason and know what's right. This could either be her most inordinate mistake or her most versatile quality - only time will allow their story to unfold. Her denial is an endeavor all of its own. She allows the thoughts to elude her mind so her heart can mend. Sometimes she worries that it's all in her heard, that she's over reacting and she's the one who's doing wrong. She worries that she's letting her past seep in to poison her present. How foolish she is, letting him toy with her heart strings and taking his behavior as something that will change with the season. Does she not remember seasons have four faces, and only repeat? There's times when she wants to give up and let go, but she can never bring her fragile heart to do it - she's scared. She knows this isn't what she wants, she knows this isn't how it should be, but she allows herself to wash his fingerprints from the crime scenes as he leaves her alone. Moving backwards to where he wants is uncharted territory; its existence may not even be possible. We can only move forward, moving backwards is a nonsensical game - building her concrete castle walls so strong they become impervious. As outsiders we can see he bleeds only false pretense; he dresses up his lies so perfectly they become hidden. If only she knew, but I'm no outsider.

I think you have some caution tape showing.

I Hope the View from Heaven Is Beautiful

When you are touched by death, you can't help but believe in god. The belief of heaven above is the security blanket in which we bury our misery and excuse our apathy for the world that not has become the barrier that separates us and someone we love. Faith is something we can't live without, because no matter how deep inside of us we hide it, it will one day resurface and we will be invariably thankful that it never really did leave us. As intricate and as difficult as something may be, we must learn to lift ourselves up and move past this seemingly inescapable moment in time - we know it's what you'd want. The sun will always rise the next morning and in it we will see your child like smile filled with innocence and love. The sun will always set and allow the slumbering moon to take its place in the conspicuous night sky - within the beautiful, endless blanket of stars and planets we will see your beautiful face. When we force ourselves to hear the thunder, see the lightening and feel the rain we will hear your voice telling us we'll see you again someday. Faith is the one thing we must forever hold onto, because without it the pillars of our soul become broken concrete held up by the sands of time that one day will run out.

The most angelic of angels must one day fall, your ageless beauty will keep the heavens bright.

Sing Me Your Masochistic Lullaby and Make Me Your Perfect Little Broken Butterfly

He has the twisted ability of the charmer. He is the puppet master of what she should know is the flame of a candle that all too soon will burn out. Fill her mind with your cursed lullabies - she'll fall into every trap you set. How about you tell her you've missed her, then the heartache will scratch the surface. Don't forget to say you're sorry, by now she'll believe every word that falls from your tongue and is graced by your perilous voice. And remember to top it off with that you've changed - she'll be head over heels for you any moment now, just sit in your clandestine glory and wait. His lies are coated with honey; there couldn't be a sweeter danger. She made a promise to herself that she would never let this happen again, she would never let him happen again. It looks like she became the one thing she despises the most; she became the worst liar of them all. A liar who does not create a world of make believe in other peoples' minds, but yet in her very own to ease the blow. "I can't get in over my head this time," she says. His ruthless goodbye left nothing, but a world of self-destruction and self-hatred. Lure her, trap her, and then let her go broken hearted. Isn't that what you do best? You let me go.

Sing me to sleep, I'll love you forever in my nightmare that is us.

The Distance Is Daring; Oh, the Young and Reckless Love It So

In his perfect story, there are the torn pages - stained by the actions of the ruthless heartbreaker and with the saline of the heartbroken. In her perfect story, there are the pages of enchantment - abundant with the moments no lover's soul could ever allow to escape their minds. In their perfect story, there is the unbelievable - these pages full of inked hope and promise. The one thing we must remember is everyone's perfect story falls together as one like the pieces of a puzzle. What makes these stories so undeniably fascinating is not that in the end they are all intertwined, but yet the idea that not one of them is the same. No piece of the same puzzle is identical, and for this we must all create our own perfect stories to fit into the big picture of everything we already know. I've discovered something wondrous about my perfect story; in my perfect story is you. We all make mistakes, and we all say things we regret and wish so much we could take back, but after all is said and done there will always still be someone there who finds you remarkable. Within me, you can search for, find, and see that.

Oh, the distance may be daring, but nothing worthwhile will ever be right before your eyes.

Little White Balloon - It's Slipping Through My Little Insignificant Fingers

Her past, it's bleeding into her disguised imperfect present. The flawless image the present was so beautifully painting itself before her eyes as being has all been a ruthless lie. She should have been anticipating, expecting, knowing this was going to happen. No matter how perfect her life may seem at any one moment in time, the car crash of emotions is not far away. Although, it is far enough away that it is hidden among the city lights and traffic jams - lurking. She's dazed and confused; her puzzled expression tells us so. Everything she knew and loved is slipping from her fingertips. Control is no more. Oil and water, that is what the people in her life are slowly, but without doubt becoming. In a way you could say these are the moments that hold the most luminous beauty of life - the inescapable, enchanting disaster. We are someone, and sometimes that someone changes, or rather the people that make us that someone change. When what makes you everything you ever thought you were leaves, believing you can remain the same is a fantastical delusion of fantasy. You can't. When those people decide to change, you're forced to comply and change whether you know it or not. We are constantly changing. The only problem is, change comes with a price.

That balloon, it made her soar.

God's Own Teardrops Danced Upon My Fragile Fingertips

Today on my way home from school, my lack of concentration caused me to miss my bus stop. The typical dreaded thought of the fact my walk home would be twice as long because of my foolish mistake flooded my mind. In all honesty, I can't say I was even the least bit thrilled about the thought of having to be walking home in the melancholic excuse for april weather we had today. As I made my way past the main road's traffic and into the side streets of suburbia, a realization hit me. I can't quite be sure if it was an accident of nature or one of faith, but despite the buckets of water drenching my hair and clothes, the rain put me in a serene state of peace with the world. Rain drops are the marionettes of God; they wash away the illusion we build ourselves up to be with the paint of want, fear, regret. Maybe if we took more time to take in the moment, the past would fade away into vivid nothingness - a distant echo. If we're always living in the cobwebbed memories of the past, the true beauty of life will forever be masked from our eyes.

Always feel, for not everything can be seen or heard.