Don't Turn Over The Rocks

Wasn't That The Way It Always Was? You Didn't Know, You Couldn't Tell, You Just Let It Happen... Perhaps They Didn't Know Themselves. Sometimes The Line Was Very Fine.

Writing Mirrors The Interior Self. You Know, Any Book Is Like The Perfect Blueprint Of The Psyche Of The Author.

That Kind Of Tenderness Couldn't Be Permitted To Last. You Only Got A Taste, Enough To Know What Perfection Meant, And Then You Paid For It The Rest Of Your Life. Like The Guy Chained To A Rock, Who Stole Fire. The Gods Made An Eagle Eat His Liver For All Eternity. You Paid For Every Second Of Beauty You Managed To Steal.

Whenever She Turned Her Steep Focus To Me, I Felt The Warmth That Flowers Must Feel When They Bloom Through The Snow, Under The First Concentrated Rays Of The Sun.

Beauty Was Deceptive. I Would Rather Wear My Pain, My Ugliness. I Was Torn And Stitched. I Was A Strip Mine, And They Would Just Have To Look. I Hoped I Made Them Sick. I Hoped They Saw Me In Their Dreams.