Two petite boats made from an old piece of paper are ready to swim
You eagerly watch as I drift them in

Its raining, its pouring
Our boats are sailing
Tiny ripples make the water a trampoline
But the boats manage not to dive in

Aye aye I am the captain
Quit drowning yourself in
For my son loves to see you sail
And I would love to see him smile

In the turn of a rosebud,
In a bright melody, there is a door;
A room for your quiet,
Where only the boards tell the stories from before.
And in a barbed winter, warm portraits are hung.

Oh, let yourself be. Let yourself be.

The final leaf dances
On a bright morning, to the North wind's song.
The only true romance is here;
My only companion when the words have gone.
And do you remember sharing that gold?

Oh, let yourself be. Let yourself be.

I'd make you a letter;
A word for a river, a poem for a boat,
And wait to be draped in our cloak -
Away from the bank and into the smoke.
And when the moon whispers, you'll know that I'm home.

Oh, let yourself be. Let yourself be.

float baby, float
in whatever you do,
stay in the boat
because i am not armed
i can't save you
so listen to your safety
and you may see tomorrow

float baby, float
in whatever you do,
stay in the boat
the waves will roar
and the lights will fade
follow the compass
and you may see tomorrow

I'm running away.
I look back.
You're standing right there.

Speechless.
Emotionless.
Tear less.

But I can still see your sorrow.
I can feel it.
I can breathe it.
I can't stop it.

I'm still running away,
And I can't quite remember why.
I floated away,
Like a wooden boat on a rough sea.
Floating, anchor less.

Wave your arms toward me, baby,
Don't speak, don't scream.
Just beckon to me.

You know that you are the fire that lights my sun.
You know that you are the wind that burns my face red.
You know that you are the water that flows through me when I feel dry.

So call to me,
Like the shore calls the tide to wash away the gritty sand.
Call to me,
Like the moon brings the waves to her lips and kisses them goodbye.
Call to me,
Like the slim beam of light calls for the safe passage of the wooden boat.

Call to me, baby,
Because you'll bring me back to shore.

How are we supposed to cope

When you are the boat and I am the rope

Holding on so slightly

While you continue to pull away

What happens when the rope finally breaks?

Do you drift out to sea,

Or stay where you're at?

The tides are changing

You can feel it in the waters

You're ever so lightly swaying

And Im about to give out.

Oh they pleaded,
women, men
young and old,
'let us pass through that sea'
to a place where we could start all over',
yet their voices fall into deaf ears
of their brothers and sisters
from another mother land,
hopeless they remain drifted
in the treacherous sea
feeling unwanted, unloved
forever rejected,
by the policies of the modern
migration...

the unworthy sea-going boat,
becomes their coffin
and the sea and the seafloor become
their graveyards,
the common fate of boat people - the asylum seekers.

I like to put my feet up
on the wall
and cross my legs over the tile
it feels comfortable
and smooth
         this is my bastion
vast and wet and screaming for
a release.                          but most often
it's a quiet place
a temple I've built to worship you in
where words echo somberly
invaders demand their boat back
and ask if it floats
  it does

I'd be a butterfly,
For Heaven's sake.
The kind that Noah forgot to take.
But still survived The Flood...
In your eyes.
I'd build a boat.
Out of your ribcage,
To set the birds free.
You heard me!
Butterflies?
**** butterflies,
I got birds inside me.
No.
What I have to say,
comes from the rip chord
of my razor blades.
Waiting my whole life
for that rubber band
to snap back.

Thank God for my destruction.
Thank God for my ruble.
Because tree's
grow out of the sides
of stone cold mountains.
That have been blown up
by the rough hands
of people mining for gold.

And people set forest fires
on purpose.
To get rid of the dead stuff.
So new things can grow.
And Sometimes.
I pick the plants.
Just to see how much dead stuff
I can accumulate,
before I set myself on fire.
And when I do,
I swear to God.
I'll be an empty notebook.
So you can cover me with lines.
The good kind.
That come from your pencil.
Cause we don't have to roll up
dollar bills
to see the moon, anymore.

A delicate smile,
So sweet,
Could melt any woman's heart.
And send her boat,
Quivering
Blissfully cast out to sea.