I should have kept those fire-work kisses to all myself; stuffed them in a shoebox and hid them on a shelf. I should have left the happy endings for the next day; kept them in my pocket for my personal use and play. Well I'm sorry that I'm cold again, sorry that I fear again, sorry that I'm shut again, Once again, I'm sorry. Misdirection has landed me a minor misconception, which, I dread, is the reason I fled, from all the moments I once wrote and read. I'm sorry that I'm cold again, I'm scared again, I'm shut again, Once again, I'm sorry. Impartial to favoritism I am devoid of common mind; my impudence arises in the astonishment of commonplace and what I still cease to understand. Simplicity I begged for, Desire I still ache for, Love remains the one thing that I always have a prayer for. So sorry that I'm cold again, scared again, closed again, Once again, I'm sorry. Mendithas, you fool, how much we share in thought; You've yet to learn, I've yet to teach, for I have not been taught. Sin is a myth, and pure is a pretense, for all we have are senses. So where are yours, so where are mine, where are our God-given senses? Writers, they have no hearts, but artists may feel for the world; Take you in and swollow you whole, complete in the fill of a hole. And if you can't for once feel nothing but bliss, then maybe you just were not meant for all this; not meant to breathe, not meant to live, for the strongest sensation of life comes when someone's taken your breath away. And that's something we'll learn some day.