Monday, 30 November 2009

Welcome to Bermuda, Love.

Tell your king.
The dirty rascal is in his castle.
And you let me in,
you let me win.

Tell your king.
His sticks and stones may break my bones,
but my words will always hurt him.

This is the way you wish his voice sounds.

From a lionheart.

Tell your King.
Any bird can sing.
Only I can roar,
and leave you gasping for more.

Tell your King.
He's mouthing along to words I wrote.
Such sweet impersonations.
Playing. Not feeling.

Tell your King.
This lions going to take his pride,
and rip him limb from limb,
have you by my side.

Tell your King.
The dirty rascal is in his castle...

... And you let me in.

... But then you cut me out...

I Will Fight You On The Beaches.

Ella hace doler mi corazón.
Pero por lo menos, ahora sé que tengo uno.

Transfixed by pictures.
Features of fantasy.
A vision of vicissity.
Pining for prosperity.
Sighing sweet somethings.
From the soul of sincerity.
While wrestling restlessly.
With disparate histories.

We suffocate ourselves.
In embracing the victory.

Algún día será amado.
¿Dónde está?


Out of sight is not out of mind,
when she's printed on every thought you find.

Out of reach, close enough to touch.
This is the day that you'll care too much.

Out of hope, left with despairity,
as your soul whispers of it's duplicities.

Out of time, before it's begun.
Cut out your heart and feed it to anyone.

Drowning in photographs, pictures of trickery.
Stains on the carpet.
Stains on the memory.
Both of us know... that's how the ending will be.