I feel everything
And nothing,


All at once,
And not at all.

Flipping another page,
But I already know that the words sound gross,
I hate my position and the cards been dealt,
The feelings that were felt,
And the hand I took,
Made me have to relook,
At what's in store,
We can't see it as a volcano,
On a distant island,
But man its tough to see the helicopter,
Made of sticks,
I promised that my heart never quits,
So ill dig my toes in the sand,
Outside my heartbreak hotel,
And watch as my emotional Malibu,
Goes to hell.

It's snowing,
And the blood is pumping and flowing,
How did I get here?
Was it due to anger, or fear?
I just remember a card game,
And a bad hangover,
There's a man preaching and I can't see,
I guess this is perfect for me,
I asked for a shot,
But they gave me a bottle,
I asked to see the mountains,
And they poured the whiskey down my throat,
And cut eye holes,
I can't complain but still called them goats,
Or *******,
It's gotten blurry,
The snow kicks up in a flurry,
Guess we all got that time,
But no one has got a watch,
Life always ends with a knot,
Of things we did and should have not,
The sun breaks as twilight sets in behind the mountains,
As if God himself is pulling up a chair,
And taking a seat,
The ground opens up beneath my feet.
And it all fades to black,
With the sound of a snap.

Body clad in golden armor,
Auburn hair in tumbling waves,
Silver boots in perfect position,
Bow and arrow poised and ready.

Brave and strong,
Filled with courage,
Full determination,
Pure perseverance.

She is a warrior princess,
Filled with fire,
Blessed with beauty and
desire.

Your voice isn't like a song
Or a prayer.
It's more like a secret.
I am selfish and don't want to share it.
I wan't to catch it in a jar with fresh air and the scent of pine trees
A bottle to mix it with carbonated bubbles
An envelope filled with letters never written.
I want you shrunken down and curled up in the curved shell of my ear.
Whisper, scream, sing, laugh, mutter.
I have a seven-track mind and I'd like you to narrate them all for me.
Read me your homework, your favourite book, your shopping lists, the ingredients of your shampoo.
The breaths and lilts and stutters
Keep it raw and new and open
And I'm honoured.
Share the secret with me.

Lovers all are soldiers, and Cupid has his campaigns:
I tell you, Atticus, lovers all are soldiers.
Youth is fit for war, and also fit for Venus.
Imagine an aged soldier, an elderly lover!
A general looks for spirit in his brave soldiery;
a pretty girl wants spirit in her companions.
Both stay up all night long, and each sleeps on the ground;
one guards his mistress's doorway, one his general's.
The soldier's lot requires far journeys; send his girl,
the zealous lover will follow her anywhere.
He'll cross the glowering mountains, the rivers swollen with storm;
he'll tread a pathway through the heaped-up snows;
and never whine of raging Eurus when he sets sail
or wait for stars propitious for his voyage.
Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night,
and blizzards interspersed with driving rain?
The soldier reconnoiters among the dangerous foe;
the lover spies to learn his rival's plans.
Soldiers besiege strong cities; lovers, a harsh girl's home;
one storms town gates, the other storms house doors.
It's clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe
and slay an unarmed host by force of arms.
(That's how the troops of Thracian Rhesus met their doom,
and you, O captive steeds, forsook your master.)
Well, lovers take advantage of husbands when they sleep,
launching surprise attacks while the enemy snores.
To slip through bands of guards and watchful sentinels
is always the soldier's mission - and the lover's.
Mars wavers; Venus flutters: the conquered rise again,
and those you'd think could never fall, lie low.
So those who like to say that love is indolent
should stop: Love is the soul of enterprise.
Sad Achilles burns for Briseis, his lost darling:
Trojans, smash the Greeks' power while you may!
From Andromache's embrace Hector went to war;
his own wife set the helmet on his head;
and High King Agamemnon, looking on Priam's child,
was stunned (they say) by the Maenad's flowing hair.
And Mars himself was trapped in The Artificer's bonds:
no tale was more notorious in heaven.
I too was once an idler, born for careless ease;
my shady couch had made my spirit soft.
But care for a lovely girl aroused me from my sloth
and bid me to enlist in her campaign.
So now you see me forceful, in combat all night long.
If you want a life of action, fall in love.