Let the poets cry themselves to sleep, and all their tearful words will turn back into steam.

From that job that makes you sleepback to the thoughts that keep you awake...

You write such pretty words, But life's no storybook. Love's an excuse to get hurt. And to hurt. Do you like to hurt? I do, I do. Then hurt me, Then hurt me, Then hurt me...

They say it's better to bury your sadness in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to wake from its sleep and burst into green.

Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers and laid entwined together on a bed of clover and left there to sleep, left there to dream of their happiness.

When I do something, I do it full steam ahead.