A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.

Sometimes when it's dark and I can't sleep,
I would lay awake in bed, counting to a hundred sheep.

I would toss and turn, I would know it's late,
but thoughts, wishes, wants and dreams would swirl through my head.

Many times I'd think about you and wonder why you're still absent,
I'd hope in my heart that soon, you'd come into my life, my very own gift from heaven.

I do not understand you,
your wants,
needs,
aspirations,
or fears.
I suppose you want me to give you everything;
but with an air of resentment;
as if you owe me something.
I suppose you want me to tell you a million entertaining and amazing stories,
but leave out just enough,
to maintain some unreal and foolish air of mystery.
I suppose you want me to come and save you,
to be there for you at every beck and call
but let you do things yourself to maintain independence
or dignity.
I may never call out to you for myself,
or express loneliness,
to avoid being needy,
or obsessive,
and yet my rugged independence is:
foolish,
childlike,
******* stubborn.
The consistent contradiction that surrounds me
leaves me speculating about you.
About your reasons.
More than i speculate on the origin of the stars;
more than i speculate on the meaning in life;
more than i speculate on the existence of god.
More than these things,
you leave me depraved,
and wanting more.

He doesn't have a lot of money
But he's got just enough time on his hands
And his hands
Are soft and skilled and soothing
When they brush across the apples of my cheeks

Wherever I am with you, that's what I'll call home
And I know my walls are tall but they're old
And they're crumbling
Pack another bowl in my piece. Spend a little more time with me please... Don't go.

Can I sink into your spirit
Can I soar inside the place where you feel safe
I'm tired of being sick of the cold, Hold me Closer.
Just like that, as if you always have.