I am a womanwith a full heart, hidden somewhere in an empty room - with eyes not quite of autumn's gold, and yet neither all of summer's green.
I wonder if love is a tale made for children, a granting of sweet dreams in their innocence - a honey-coating to help their throats choke down the bitter drought.
I hear a voice that whispers warnings, half-formed, bodiless as hope, until I swear I cannot draw another breath unless this specter be unmasked. His lies mangled - neath my righteous tread.
I see a woman, proud, uncompromising, that fall in desolation about her weary feet, diaphanous as air - less, even, than the tears salt poison pooled upon the withered ground.
I want a measure of quietude, a certain silence, the echo of alone which heals me of dreaming, the nothing that stills the wanting, the numb, the cold that laughs at pain.
I ama woman, hidden. I pretend that I can live forever, that time has no puissant but that which I afford Him. And so, I can wait, I can be happy tomorrow. Sleep is for the dead; but it's ghosts haunt my waking.
I feel too much - too deeply to be directionless, too real for imagining. And yet the familiar eyes hold nothing of recognition only my reflection; a meeting of shadows in sunlit glass.
I touch the downy wings of hope, in wonder, in reverence, in need, in hunger. Alas, it burns my fingers as a flame, a sacrilege, self-defined.
I worry that I am alone; that in my longing I have forsaken all. But oh, what reward, what smile divine should light the path to freedom. And how can I, but heed the siren's call?
I cryfor having too much, for fear of bursting. And then, when by the pouring of my soul; I lie, a vessel emptied. I cry again for what was had, and lost;
I am a woman, empty.
I understand that life is what you make it. That sometimes the coat of many colors that marks your triumphs, brightly blends only to loneliest of grey.
I say that we are made by life, shaped, broken, perhaps unmade and voided. But always the core of us remains, waiting with only faith, with trust - to be reborn.
I dream of bluest waters, reaching with unnatural hands toward the faded sky, of dolphins that wander in seas without limits, carrying me water-breathing past corals and clouds.
I try to lead by example; knowing that merely the telling holds no power. A gift of giving is merely a day, while a gift of knowing spans forever.
I hope that my darkness holds you gently - that pain is halved by sharing, that feeling wields nothing past the words it summons. Except that it touch you with only healing.
I am a woman, only.
Send "Gei Lian" Ringtone to your Cell 
I wonder if love is a tale made for children, a granting of sweet dreams in their innocence - a honey-coating to help their throats choke down the bitter drought.
I hear a voice that whispers warnings, half-formed, bodiless as hope, until I swear I cannot draw another breath unless this specter be unmasked. His lies mangled - neath my righteous tread.
I see a woman, proud, uncompromising, that fall in desolation about her weary feet, diaphanous as air - less, even, than the tears salt poison pooled upon the withered ground.
I want a measure of quietude, a certain silence, the echo of alone which heals me of dreaming, the nothing that stills the wanting, the numb, the cold that laughs at pain.
I ama woman, hidden. I pretend that I can live forever, that time has no puissant but that which I afford Him. And so, I can wait, I can be happy tomorrow. Sleep is for the dead; but it's ghosts haunt my waking.
I feel too much - too deeply to be directionless, too real for imagining. And yet the familiar eyes hold nothing of recognition only my reflection; a meeting of shadows in sunlit glass.
I touch the downy wings of hope, in wonder, in reverence, in need, in hunger. Alas, it burns my fingers as a flame, a sacrilege, self-defined.
I worry that I am alone; that in my longing I have forsaken all. But oh, what reward, what smile divine should light the path to freedom. And how can I, but heed the siren's call?
I cryfor having too much, for fear of bursting. And then, when by the pouring of my soul; I lie, a vessel emptied. I cry again for what was had, and lost;
I am a woman, empty.
I understand that life is what you make it. That sometimes the coat of many colors that marks your triumphs, brightly blends only to loneliest of grey.
I say that we are made by life, shaped, broken, perhaps unmade and voided. But always the core of us remains, waiting with only faith, with trust - to be reborn.
I dream of bluest waters, reaching with unnatural hands toward the faded sky, of dolphins that wander in seas without limits, carrying me water-breathing past corals and clouds.
I try to lead by example; knowing that merely the telling holds no power. A gift of giving is merely a day, while a gift of knowing spans forever.
I hope that my darkness holds you gently - that pain is halved by sharing, that feeling wields nothing past the words it summons. Except that it touch you with only healing.
I am a woman, only.
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