|lôst in rōibäs|

idiosyncrasies of an average ingénue


Its all built up within. He hears from all around him and cannot decide. Tearing at him. Making him question what is good. What is right in front of him. There needs to be tolerance. The voice inside him rants and raves. It causes him to wonder if she’ll change.

She’s tried to keep her word. Steps taken to make a difference. Constantly being beaten down, struck down with expectations. Wondering if what she does is enough to satisfy, enough to please. She takes in all that she is told, all that they want her to do and be.

Much time spent. Though not enough for the one nor the other. Yet still he says more space. She says just wait.



Oh to see how much I want you.
If only you knew.

Oh to know how I admire you and love you.
If you could understand.

I want you to be there through the thick and thin. Through everything. Through the worst and best of times. I want you. I want you so much. Dare you not see how much  I need you. I love you.

I love you so much.

Everything I knew crumbled. There is a new path in my view. I don’t know where it will take me. I don’t know where I will be going in the next leap.

Cant you understand. I want. I want so much.

I don’t want anything to tear us apart.

There was a woman. She had been beaten. She loved. They took her love away from her. She wept and pleaded. They did not bring him back. She was left there to bleed out and cry herself dry. She was left to die. Left to live the excruciating pain of loss. Dread. Fear. Hate.


A magical twinkling of promises;
Deep blue fills the open void of sky.

Daunting awareness of sweet surrounding;
Calm hues of violet and orange lace the horizon.

Breezes of wonder permeate the sparkling air;
Golden light streams through the mantle of cloud.

Knowledge is set in twilight;
Enchanting greens and soft dew coat the landscape.


Life is but a rose with thorns.
It’s planted, grows, then blooms in the morn’.
Yes, life is but a rose with thorns. 
There’s beauty yet there’s pain,
When a finger pricked by a sharp thorn,
One learns to refrain,
From the things which hurt is born.

Then a gardener comes to trim the rose,
At the stem from which it grows.
Now the life of that rose is short;
While yet the gardener still contains a smile.
You see, the place where he trimmed the rose,
Is the very place where another grows.

From the moment the bud is born,
The plant is destined to be a rose with thorns.