Art, a smile like the one
on the face of Mona Lisa.
Curved like the waxing moon
above the sea.
Light a flame before a face
yet to be seen.
What will it prevail,
will it show once for all
a slow tilt on the smiling lips
—a curve softly locks on
a rose from the sun,
or a shadow beneath the moon?

When your eyes lie
And your mouth tells the truth,

I will believe you don't love me anymore

But until then, I stay

we write when we're at our weakest
we write when we've been cut open
we write when we're bleeding
we write when we're dying inside

Not all those who write are sad,
but all sad people write.