.
He wrote in the mornings, she recited to him at night,
He always made breakfast, she made dishes disappear,
His garb was quite frumpy, and hers, made of spun gold,
He struggled with fashion, song birds would dress her,
He thought his poems looked best in moving candlelight,
She made all the fires and lit candles with her eyes.
Once, he was embarrassed and said to her,
'How can you live like this with me in a hovel?'
She said it reminded her of Plato's Cave.
At readings he looked out and saw sinking eyes,
Now he has her read all his poems, it works
Wonders that way, and after-parties are strange,
Everyone keeps staring and asking for her
Name.  She gives cryptic answers and winks
At him.  The poet was running out of words
And thought his days with her were waning.
But she said her heart was kept in a precious
Box of symbols, of words, only he could write.  
She said that it was written in the sky, that poetry
Was dying and that he was the cure.  He told
Her that the stars were lost at night, and fading
While she sparkled unfailing, and many times
They tasted each others tears, many times
The world stopped spinning, he knew
It was her, she felt it was him.  To all
Others, their one bedroom flat was small,
Yet to them, it was the Palace Athene.

People cover up wounds with bandages,
whether it's the littlest paper cut,
or the largest **** all the way to the bone.
They are always covered with bandages,
hidden for no one else to see.

That's what's happening to society
We're all hurting,
whether it's the littlest paper cut in the heart,
to the largest **** all the way to the bone.
But we are forced to cover it up with a smile,
so no one will see we are dying.
You don't realize how people are hurting inside,
all you see is the smile.
And sooner or later,
you will look in her casket and say
"I always remembered her beautiful smile,
I never knew she was hurting inside".