You taught me to love, you taught me to hide,
You taught me to judge, and you taught me to cry.
I have felt joy and have also felt fear,
Tasted the bitterness that is in a tear,
I have risen and I have felt the fall,
In short, with you, I have felt it all.
Yet even in anger, even in pain,
I do not regret and exactly the same, I will do it again.
A lifetime it felt, and a lifetime it was,
Memories undying, it will stay as is, as it always was,
Pure moments of happiness,
Gifts which will always be priceless.

Some people call me young
But to others, I am old.
How you see me depends
On the way my impression is sold.

Can you really see everything?
If I laid myself in front of you, would you know?
Could you reach out to grab my heart,
Or only grasp what was meant to be shown?

Can you really see everything?
If I stood beside you, could you tell?
Could you place your tender hands upon mine,
Or only cover what wasn’t hidden well?  

Can you really see everything?
If I presented my last breath to you, would you grieve?
Is everything shown before you what must be true,
Or is that what the world wants you to believe.

In the dark, we are all nothing.
What once had an identity, now only what remains.
We are only something when the light chooses to show us,  
Without it, we are just part of the unknown, we are all the same.

So tell me now, can you really see everything?

To excel is like climbing a mighty mound
So dreary it seems trudging the desolated road,
But I've grown too weary doing inconsequential things.
Lazy to walk, craving for a comfy abode.

Though it's only disinterest that crosses my way
Like a torrent of the mountain creek,
Drowning me in trifling thoughts,
making my journey all the more bleak.

Hope I could find a tree along,
Bloomed with evergreen pomes
Of passion and perseverance.
I'd love to nibble at them for sure,
And regain my lost endurance.

I know I could transcend my limits
And ascend this arduous rock,
If only I took the first step
And started to walk.

I can't write like you do
I can't really compose
Grace has always eluded me
In movement and in prose

You write of such big things
But they are still all the same
Me? I can't really toy
With ideas so insane

I'm not a professional wordsmith
My art hasn't been trained
When I write, the words flow easy
Unabashed and Untamed

You and your words are sculpted
Precisely, with finesse
But with a subdued gloss and lack luster
So twisted so suppressed

And now I see my dear self
Finally in a clear way
Not in my movements or in the glass
but on my inked page

So if you ask me, dear self
Which cage do I choose?
I'd choose my dented brass one
Instead of your golden noose.

SWEETHEART, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed --
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.