It is tough,
It is very tough,
But just smiling is not enough.

It is very dull
To look at a skull,
Unless you are Hamlet
Or the skull is somehow yours.

It looks,
Like we are on the same page
Of two different books.

I told you, leave me out of it,
And you left me out of it,
But apparently, it was me,
And so, I am not anymore.

I told you, 'never!',
But you told me, that I should never say this,
Ever.

I told you once, I told you twice,
Then I fall asleep,
That sums up our relationship, I guess.

I told you so,
But you wouldn't listen,
You never do.

I told you so,
But you wouldn't listen,
And now you are sorry,
End of story.

I took a book,
And I was taken by the book
I took.

It pleases me
To understand,
What's wrong with me.

I tried,
I tried very hard
To be funny and smart,
Without being obvious.

I tried my best,
It wasn't enough,
I failed test,
My life is tough.

I tried to understand, why,
But than I got lucky,
And now I know, why not.

Sometimes it's not enough,
But suddenly it's tough,
And all the edges are exceptionally rough.

it's a crazy story
inside of another crazy story,
which is absolutely crazy.

It's a miracle,
That I live
And have you,
On my side.

It's an odd feeling:
Something is going on,
But you aren't,
You are not going on.

It's beautiful.
Are you sure
That it's still you?

It's beyond weird,
It's back to just stupid.

It's difficult to be back,
If you never have been away.
So, just stay.

It's difficult to sleep without you,
With you, it's rather impossible.

It's easy to miss you,
It's difficult to please you,
It's impossible not to tease you.

It seems I existed before,
And therefore,
I might be alright in the future.

It's fresh,
It's cold,
It's blue,
It's sparkling,
It's everywhere,
It's the winter's air.

It's funny to discover sometimes, that I still have feelings - different ones, by that. I mean, not reactions, but feelings. They are not from here, not from this level of reality, where myself isn't quite at home. Thus I am pulled towards their point of origin, probably my soul.

It's going nowhere,
But then again,
It's going nowhere
Very slowly.

It's good,
That's possible,
This is perfect,
And that is me.

it's good to be speechless for a while,
it's recomforting and you can't lie.

It's hard only at the beginning,
After this, it's nearly impossible,
But it's not the beginning anymore.

It should be you,
Or it should be me,
But it shouldn't be us,
Not us together.

It's just an accommodation,
A place to put and arrange your things,
Like feelings and hopes.

it smells so nice,
these sudden smells are driving me crazy,
such smells ought to stay,
such smells should be lazy.

It's not an issue,
It is the issue.

It's not cheap,
It's priceless,
It's where an eternity and a zero are merging together.

It's not difficult,
It's not impossible,
It's not even boring,
And still I'm not doing it.

It's nothing,
But it's always there,
So it's everything.

It's not my nature
To be myself.

It's not normal,
It's not normal at all,
It's beautiful.

it's not pretty,
it's pretty ugly,
it's ugly.

It's not too difficult,
It's only impossible,
You can do it.

It's not what you think,
It's even not what I think it is,
It's something totally else.

It's not you, it's me.
(Talking to the mirror).

It's not you,
It's me without you.

It's probably over now,
Unless...
Oh no, it's over!
Nevertheless...
It's over, I'm telling you,
What a mess...
Well, then it's really over,
I guess.

It's quite deep in the centre,
It's boring elsewhere,
And I am an average swimmer.

It's raining,
It's wonderful,
It's new and wet.

It's sad,
It's scary,
But mostly it's sad.

It's simple,
Things are just too difficult to be easy.

It's so tempting to be disgusted,
To moan,
To criticise every man and his home.

It's spring.
Soon, the books will grow new pages.