A poem that my sister and I once wrote together with some good songs in mind

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Beauty comes to those who have been waiting  
for something bigger than themselves.                                                       
This heartstring is stretched taut already,
and all that remains is for us to give way.
I’m tired of flying my kite in this ashen sky,
and my calloused fingers let go,
as my dull eyes watch the breath of the hurricane catch his tail.
I hope that by night, he will make it up to the heavens
before crashing down like the burning rocks
that people waste their wishes upon—
before I find out that you're not my star.
But there's beauty in the supernova.
I would call it my own. 


And I have never been afraid of opening myself up to a dream—      
visions of reaching the sun with wax and feathers intact,
of clocks that melt but never distort time,
of changes for the better. 
But I make myself vulnerable
when I live in the real
and live for the surreal.
Sometimes it hurts to dream too.