Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.

I've never been in love, but it must be like waking up from a lovely dream.
It's probably something like a road trip without a destination.
I hope it's that feeling in your stomach as the roller coaster is dropping, electricity coursing through your veins.
Maybe it's like a camera, freezing moments that feel like forever.
I bet its something like the glittering embers in the sky, just after a firework burst into a dozen lights.
I'm sure love is like a constellation, where you can connect the dots to create a story.
Love must be like rain drops on a window, accumulating slowly, then racing to the brim of the frame.
I think love is like an eclipse. The sun and the moon circling the globe, in search of each other. And when they finally meet, the world stops to watch.
For me, I know love is a dusty typewriter, waiting for its story to be written.

Let me tell you about a girl I know

She lives in a brick house,
But her mind's encased in one-way glass
She can see through others,
But she rarely says what she's thinking

She drinks to feel free
But finishing the bottle doesn't make the boys love her
It just breaks the rules,
Something that is all too ordinary,
all too easy for her

You want to believe that she's dependable, she's responsible,
But her only certainty is her constant lies

As smart as she is,
She finds herself in the middle--
Caught in someone else's game-- all too often

She's never without a joke or prank,
Wears them like sunglasses
So that no one can see the emotions behind her eyes

She's begging for security
She's a liar, a manipulator,
A girl starved for something real

And she won't let herself have it

What happens to your name
After it is written down?

Does it fly to the dead and remind
Them of the beauty they have lost?
-or-
Does it travel the world slipping
Poison in to the cups of little tyrants?
-or-
Does it blow from town to city driping
Glue in to the eyes of racists?
-or-
Does it turn in to grass
Where grass is needed most?
-or-
Does it hang from a chain
In the shape of a cross?
-or-
Does it fall in to a poor mans dream
Sparkling like a stream of gold?
-or-
Does it sit by your side
Watching you grow old?

What happens to your name
After it is written down?

Like love
At first sight
I watched
Eden
bloom in your eyelids.

As my heart beat
Richter scales,
I was afraid the
weight of my breath would sound
earthquake
and break the
snow globes
in your eye sockets.

For the first time,
I wished everything would
freeze
in the moment our eyes met.

When our gaze broke I was
shook
so hard I could see my dreams floating in air,
like snowflakes
looking for a place to come true.

They found a home
on your fingertips
and some you even caught on your tongue.

Now gardens grow
in my cheeks when I sleep,
and every time
our eyes kiss I
drip
into the nooks and crannies of
your lips.

You built me
a snowman
out of blown kisses and
promised it wouldn't melt.

And I built you a cottage in my cornea.

O Love! thou makest all things even
In earth or heaven;
Finding thy way through prison-bars
Up to the stars;
Or, true to the Almighty plan,
That out of dust created man,
Thou lookest in a grave,--to see
Thine immortality!