Atticus Poetry

Our songslive longer thanour kingdoms.

We are all born free and spend a lifetime becoming slaves to our own false truths.

We humans are so tortured by not properly guessing what will make us happy.

Art takes time__onet grew his gardensbefore he painted them.

She was afraid of heightsbut she was much more afraid of never flying.

There will alwaysa glimmer in thosewho have been through the dark.

True artcomes from flying with the madnessso close you burn your eyelashes.

Sometimes I want a quiet lifeother timesI want to go a little bit fucking Gatsby.

She sat in her perfect house, with her perfect husband, wishing that her perfect life would end.

I will follow you, my love, to the edge of all our days,to our very last tomorrows.

Brushing a girl__ hair behind her earonce a daywill solve more problemsthan all thosetherapists and drugs.

One day I__l paint the perfect sunset-- if I can only find the words.

You and I will be lost and found a thousand times along this cobbled road of us.

Don't worry_ you see, to some you are magic.

What a strange world. We trade our days for things.

Drugs to mehave always beena pretty girl with a sly smilebeckoning mewith a finger down the dark path of a fork in the road.

She found herselfover a long and treacherous roadand the more treacherous the road became,the more of herselfshe found.

I worry there is something broken in our generation,there are too many sad eyes on happy faces.