Hurdle the Dead

I don't break hearts. It's the memories I collect.
Gone but not forgotten, defined in retrospect.
Smiles and tears, hopes and dreams.
Moments unravel like stitches to a seam.
Picture perfect pleasantries.
Silly scrapbook tendencies.
We record the world and memorize the faces.
Trapped inside a diary, we wither like the pages.
History leaves our hearts in utter disarray.
And as we fall apart, we cling to what remains.
We worship the past, we honor the stains.
We sacrifice logic to recreate the pain.
Just a simple emotion, a first love once again.
Never really move on. Never hurdle the dead.
Never let go. It's impossible to forget.
Because the magic we had will never be a regret.
We divide our hearts in the shape of love.
But now our passion falls short and its not enough.
Can't return to neverland if only you believe.
The flight of our hearts is a distant memory.
In the back of my mind I feel every emotion again.
Swimming and spinning before the emptiness began.
So I say to you hearts, pure and passionate.
We are made of scars, we are made to forget.
But before the light of our eyes falls to shadow and sorrow
Light up the night with bright dreams of tomorrow.
If I based my life on the person I once was,
I would have never discovered the man that I've become.