I give my heart away too easily.
But manipulation is a sin,
so call me an angel and I'll call you the fallen.
Now your flames are close by, I can feel the warmth.
But who wants hell when you've tasted heaven?
Like a child that never learns
I keep returning to the burn.
So call me an angel and I'll call you the tempter.
Innocent and naive, yet wanting,
So if not fire, then venom.
I'll seek out every evil to get my fill.
So call me the fallen,
and you're the very snake.

Tell me... Tell me where I messed up.
I could never solve the simplest problems
and you were a complex maze.
Tell me... Where did my calculations go wrong?
After holding on for so long...
They all fell away.
The embers in your eyes are dying.
The warmth you offered me has fled.
The ashes now are rising
and the darkness, drowning me again.
Tell me, tell me my old friend
the way to once more kindle the flame;
How to reignite the fire,
and illuminate this lonely pain.

I wasn't another code for you to crack.
My life isn't another book you can rip from my mouth
and throw on the shelf.
I shook off my dust cover for you,
but you sneezed and laughed it off.
Will I ever be enough?
You were in love with novels,
and so mine was convenient.
Will I ever get it back?
Take a look at your account. Those fines are adding up.
And I'm afraid your destruction will stem
from the pieces you read,
you loved,
you kept.
Here's the fault with getting involved:
You don't know yourself.
Instead you tore out my pages,
and threw me on the shelf.

They scream to me:
"You'll never love another,
if you don't first love yourself."
And I almost believed it that day,
as I sat in front of that familiar dreaded glass.
Tears stained my cheeks,
and my body curled up as I shrank
to resemble how small I felt.
Head pounding, face swollen and red;
they were just more things to hate.
So my shaking hands could not show
one kind, loving gesture to the body they belonged to.
But no.
I refuse to believe the common phrase.
Because these rough hands can touch another's life.
This beaten and withered heart can love someone else.
And it does.
I love her, and him, and her, and him and him, and her.
I don't believe it. I'll never believe it.
For though I could never love myself,
I can and I will love someone else.

Never to be like that beautiful soul that wept,
under the heartbreak of 30 years,
I pray - uncertain of any favorable result whatsoever.
Oh those uncertainties, they are my heart's corruption.
So I listen to them.
That booming voice raised in anger -
(I've heard it too many times) -
anger amid her distrust.
But why give her a reason in the first place?

So thank you - for all the tears streaming down my face.
Thank you for all of my own distrust.
Thank you for my unfaithfulness.
Thank you for my disbelief.
Thank you for my fear.
What a tremendous example you've been.
You've raised me so well.

I'm just another Lotus-Eater.
You leave the sweetest taste in my mouth.
Lips tingling, heart racing, palms sweating, body shaking.
The sweetest poison that I could find,
you tire me out and cloud my mind.
You are my lotus and I never want to return home.

My heart, My mind, My soul,
could never crave the temporal.
I joined the others on the stage that day,
with hopes - not too high; but hearts open wide.
Yet young lungs breathed in every word that she spoke.
"Our art is of the moment."
Never were words so true.
And never has any moment been so... captivating.
Tears fell as she offered her wisdom,
in interpretations of the text, the rhythm, the tune.
Bodies shaked as we emptied our very lives
into the artwork - the masterpiece...
the moment.
And passion fell again on our cheeks.
And her cheeks.
And the audience's flooding cheeks.
"Our art is of the moment" resounded
somewhere deep under even the booming voices.
Our art was of the moment.
And that moment was simply... transcendental.

"You'll never sing again the way you did just now,
will you?"
"No"