If I have to tell a lie
to turn a head or catch an eye
I just remember all it is
is suicide.

Imitation can't endure
for losing myself there is no cure.
By the rules of others I am sure
I can't abide.

Where are my words?
Should my poems be taken from me?
They are my heart, my face, my name.
I say I write poems,
but they are but words;
ink and paper and rarely rhyme.
Words of love and power,
joy and sadness,
words of courage and war,
of wisdom and of life-
but mostly of love,
and so mostly of sadness it seems.

Cry a little
Lie a little
We all have to die a little
Maybe I can buy I little time

Make the music loud
The air around you pound
Find yourself a little rhythm
Make yourself a little rhyme

Because what it all comes down to
Is just a little time.

Oh my boy I though I loved
The thought of you does linger
So distinct and yet as faint
As the fair line on my finger
Protected by the burning sun
By the promise of your heart
Never thinking it would see the day
That we would grow apart
There did sit that ring of yours
The same spot every day
Until you left me for the coast
The sea took you away
To leave me here
-but where is here?
For I am nowhere without you near
And so I sit, I sit and wait
For the time to come
That you may remember me and maybe come back home
But now that band remains to me
An unforgiving token
Of a promise that was made of us
A promise that was broken.