"The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name."
-William Shakespeare

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Control

Everyone knows where I should go, and none of them agree.
They've never seen inside my heart; it's hard enough for me.
I just want to do my thing--by that, I don't mean lazy.
My heart's alive for something that's not women, clothes, or money.
'Cause deep inside my veins is something burning up frivolity.
I'm turning toward creation from destruction rather slowly.
I think too hard too often, and my brain controls my heart.
I'll burn the things I own before they tear my soul apart.
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