There once was a man...

There once was a man sitting and writing...
well, nothing comes out, but at least he is trying.
"About what should I write?", thinks the man puzzled up.
Every time he starts writing there's always a "but".
"Should I speak about feelings and what makes me sigh?
Should I speak about life and of times that went by?"

There is always a story that he wants to tell,
about dragons and fairies... his dead brother... Miguel.
About making balloons that fly through the air.
About perilous plays that no others would dare.

About friendship and love, even brotherly brawl,
about not saying nothing and saying nothing at all.
"Maybe people could show what they feel down inside
by showing it's color! Maybe having hair dyed!".
Signs of smoke through the air that would say all that matters
that would scream what you feel, way before a tear splatters.

"I could write down a story about a tortured soul,
about how his life's losses are taking their toll".
Then again life has sorrow, but also has light,
"I could write about bunnies and carrots they bite!"

Random things come to mind and the wheel once more turns
maybe balance is something that comes from these burns.
How the passion of moments can draw such a smile
but then guts get ripped out of you once in a while.

All the stories fly by, all at once in his head,
about this one that lives.. about that one who's dead.
About horses that run... free in the wild
about Alda, the warrior, that fights for her child.

"There is Christmas and family and lights and a tree,
there are gnomes in the garden, that no one can see."
There is tea, there's a rabbit and a crab that can sing,
"with a suit.. and sunglasses! Maybe even a ring!"

All he knows is this randomness that flows through is head
where he takes all the energy to get out of bed.
He can tell you his stories, he will tell you, I'm certain
he will let you inside... he will open the curtain.
But you won't understand, when he opens his doors.
That's ok, 'cause I bet he won't understand yours.