(Noni Murphy):
Just a broken girl
Living a lonely world,
She yearned for true love’s kiss
From anywhere.
She would search throughout,
For love to come & save her.
As the moon awaits the sun to take its place.
(paul.itiCs):
She was a Flower child,
A damsel, oblivious of her beauty.
Tucked in thorns,
Yet she still rose & stood out of the floral.
Crimson red,
Her pores would bleed the finest flush of fragrance,
With enchanting brown sockets that windowed the embers to her heart.
It housed the corpse of sold dreams,
now bears the birth of brick walls.
She longed for love,
But would only love
the ones that lusted after her petals.
The ones that picked her from solace,
while slowly suffocating her.
Her petals were chosen,
but her naked stem paid the price.
Used for pleasure, as she slowly faded.
Sister of perfection.
Daughter of rejection.
Mother of the tribe of Judah,
She bore the thorns,
but also wore the bruises of its prick.
Too Heavy for weak hands,
She became stranger to commitment,
Never knowing lasting relationships,
Hers were passed down,
Never tailor-made.
She was maid, never the bride.
With Weakened eyes,
She was swayed easily during the day,
when the Son would rise,
and was seduced by the luminescence of its setting.
(Noni Murphy):
Just a stubborn boy,
Born and raised on trails of hurt.
He searched for peace within,
from everywhere.
(paul.itiCs):
He was a hard worker.
Son of the sacrifice.
Master of deceit, He was ..
Son of flower,
with bright petals on the exterior,
but darkened seeds deep rooted and pollinated by sin.
He was seasonal,
only stemmed when convenient,
and would hibernate when he was needed.
He longed for consistency, but consistently settled.
No interest in Leah’s, he sowed for Rachel ..
Yet stumbled for Bilhah & Zilpah,
Before he would reap her.
Broken he was,
finding pleasure in cracked smiles & seeds of the pulpits,
They were synonymous with hurt & hidden scars,
with stories lying between each line.
Believers, yet still unequally yoked.
Children of the congregation practicing love,
from outside the Corinthians walls ..
They bought it at pains’ thriftshop,
Sacrificing it at peace’s expense.
Once lovers, now strangers.
Immatured lovers,
now bearing matured wounds that still bleed.
Like hurricanes,
They left trails of glorious ruins.
They played hide-&-seek with love,
but found the wrong closets.
(Noni Murphy):
Maybe losing each other,
will help us find ourselves.
(paul.itiCs):
Maybe we weren't ready,
Maybe we bore more than we could ever carry,
(Noni Murphy):
Maybe we needed to grow
Maybe life paved us different roads.
(paul.itiCs):
Maybe pain is really life’s greatest teacher.
giving lessons on patience.
(Noni Murphy):
Maybe we were to be alone,
So our hearts won't be like stone.
(paul.itiCs):
Maybe solitary, is needed before matrimony.
or Maybe, Maybe's aren't meant to be.
Just a broken girl
Living a lonely world,
She yearned for true love’s kiss
From anywhere.
She would search throughout,
For love to come & save her.
As the moon awaits the sun to take its place.
(paul.itiCs):
She was a Flower child,
A damsel, oblivious of her beauty.
Tucked in thorns,
Yet she still rose & stood out of the floral.
Crimson red,
Her pores would bleed the finest flush of fragrance,
With enchanting brown sockets that windowed the embers to her heart.
It housed the corpse of sold dreams,
now bears the birth of brick walls.
She longed for love,
But would only love
the ones that lusted after her petals.
The ones that picked her from solace,
while slowly suffocating her.
Her petals were chosen,
but her naked stem paid the price.
Used for pleasure, as she slowly faded.
Sister of perfection.
Daughter of rejection.
Mother of the tribe of Judah,
She bore the thorns,
but also wore the bruises of its prick.
Too Heavy for weak hands,
She became stranger to commitment,
Never knowing lasting relationships,
Hers were passed down,
Never tailor-made.
She was maid, never the bride.
With Weakened eyes,
She was swayed easily during the day,
when the Son would rise,
and was seduced by the luminescence of its setting.
(Noni Murphy):
Just a stubborn boy,
Born and raised on trails of hurt.
He searched for peace within,
from everywhere.
(paul.itiCs):
He was a hard worker.
Son of the sacrifice.
Master of deceit, He was ..
Son of flower,
with bright petals on the exterior,
but darkened seeds deep rooted and pollinated by sin.
He was seasonal,
only stemmed when convenient,
and would hibernate when he was needed.
He longed for consistency, but consistently settled.
No interest in Leah’s, he sowed for Rachel ..
Yet stumbled for Bilhah & Zilpah,
Before he would reap her.
Broken he was,
finding pleasure in cracked smiles & seeds of the pulpits,
They were synonymous with hurt & hidden scars,
with stories lying between each line.
Believers, yet still unequally yoked.
Children of the congregation practicing love,
from outside the Corinthians walls ..
They bought it at pains’ thriftshop,
Sacrificing it at peace’s expense.
Once lovers, now strangers.
Immatured lovers,
now bearing matured wounds that still bleed.
Like hurricanes,
They left trails of glorious ruins.
They played hide-&-seek with love,
but found the wrong closets.
(Noni Murphy):
Maybe losing each other,
will help us find ourselves.
(paul.itiCs):
Maybe we weren't ready,
Maybe we bore more than we could ever carry,
(Noni Murphy):
Maybe we needed to grow
Maybe life paved us different roads.
(paul.itiCs):
Maybe pain is really life’s greatest teacher.
giving lessons on patience.
(Noni Murphy):
Maybe we were to be alone,
So our hearts won't be like stone.
(paul.itiCs):
Maybe solitary, is needed before matrimony.
or Maybe, Maybe's aren't meant to be.
( Paul.itiCs )
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