No Picture So Pretty

Sometimes I can hear her through the walls,
she cries on her pillow until she falls asleep
And in her dreams I hear her screams as she falls
for a boy who naps on the branches of birch trees

She hangs a painted picture underneath the leaves,
but he will not turn his head to see what she has drawn
And all-the-while the river bellow whispers and weaves
the secrets of a young boy's heart, empty and withdrawn

I go into to sleep tonight with someone next to me,
trying to settle in comfort over a pillow that is dry
And I make a wish as I close my eyes, to dream,
to dream of falling for the boy in the birch tree

I'll paint a picture and hang it underneath the leaves,
hoping and praying that he will turn his head to see
But he will remain on his branch, as still as he can be,
and then I'll know that his heart never belonged to me

I wake up each morning with all my love returned,
He is so loving, so silly, so honest and concerned

Yet my songs all sound off key,
new things fail to impress me,
I've lost my sense to cry,
my passion has all run dry,
flames are losing their flicker,
moments pass by quicker and quicker,
the sugar tastes bitter,

... and my poor heart is losing her glitter.

"The best fuel for a writer's heart is sorrow."