Quotes

There's a tide in your eyes, and several hundred reasons why

I should simply say goodbye as I look into the tide in your eyes.

But there's in the tide in your eyes that I can never deny,

so I give it a try ...

Again.

I'm falling

Again.

Catch me,

I'm falling.

Again.

There's a song from your lips, romantic like a kiss.

I know ignorance is bliss, so I don't let you miss

the song on my lips, calling for your kiss,

filling me with bliss.

Again.

I'm falling.

Again.

Catch me,

I'm falling.

Again.

I think I'm on cloud nine, 'cause this is so divine,

something so sublime, I can hear the bells chime.

There's a tide in your eyes, and several hundred reasons why

I should simply say goodbye as I look into the tide in your eyes.

But there's in the tide in your eyes that I can never deny,

so I give it a try ...

Again.

I give it a try.

Again.

So, catch me,

I'm falling

Again.

I'm falling.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I think I'm in love with you again.

Light fades through the room, drones out the sound, uncertainty looms to the past to which we're bound.

I can't feel your heart, but I know that it's slow, unable to grow, lost in the wind that blow, so ...

You fade into a shadow.

You don't recognize the tears on my face.

Everything we had will

fade away into the empty black space.

I don't wanna be a shadow,

But you don't a choice if you do.

I try, and I try. All do is try.

I try to get you as a shadow out of my mind.

I don't even know why, yeah, even why,

why the end was nigh.

My thoughts intertwine, and the music gets too loud.

I stumble in line, and I fear you're not proud.

And it's like,

You fade into a shadow.

You don't recognize the tears on my face.

Everything we had will

fade away into the empty black space.

I don't wanna be a shadow,

But you don't a choice if you do.

Don't bother to get too close.

I won't be your ideal host.

I'm the fire, the burn, the ember, the spark, the flame, the smoke that's making you nervous.

You see me around, watching me drown, gray in the frown, walking in town, like I ain't worth it.

But you've heard it.

I'm bad news.

I'm just a rouse

In a game you're gonna lose.

Yeah, I'm bad news.

I'm the ghost that's lurking around, don't make a sound, lost and not found, so aren't you proud?

I'm the poison inside, escaping my mind, so out of time, small as a dime, claiming what's mine.

But it's time you know:

I'm bad news.

I'm just a rouse

In a game you're gonna lose.

Yeah, I'm bad news.

Look at the stitches across my skin.

Each is one a different pattern:

The teddy bears of infancy and innocence;

The bubbles of childhood and optimism;

The clouds of adolescent darkness;

And the wind of the future.

Look at me.

Am I not proud?

Where the water is dry,

Where the fire is wet,

A river of tears stream from my eyes.

Where the sun is dark and gray,

and the sky is mucky blue,

I wander with no place to stay.

Where lips curl downwards,

where the only noise is a spark of hatred,

I climb outwards.

To the west of despair,

To the east of endless flares,

To the south of gloom,

To the north of wilted instead of bloomed.

Why does the sea call me

like the rolling tide

that pulls me in?

Why does the tide need me 

like thunder needs lightning

to create the perfect storm?

Why does the storm intrigue me 

like a million little dots in a

collage of abstract art?

I am the sea.

I am the tide.

I am the thunder.

I am the lightning.

I am the perfect storm.

And I am a piece of abstract 

art. 
When we fade into the darkness, who remembers us? 
Are we nothing more than the dust we return to when our time is up?
I remember when I was young, I dreamed about fame. 
I always wanted the whole world to know my name. 
Now, my dreams, my visions, my colors are tame.
I think about a legacy, and these words come to mind:

                                           "Legacy. What is a legacy? 
 It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see."

If this is all I am,
If I'm meant to be a lamb among wolves,
then I shall turn these wolves into sheep.

This poem is inspired by Hamilton, specifically this quote.

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Some days have passed since Irene has been made captain. JONES is stacking barrels on deck, absentmindedly. BAEDEKER enters, sneaking near to JONES. JONES looks up to see him, and awkwardly tries to avoid him. 

                              JONES: 
          Oh. Hello, capt — I mean, hello, b-Baedeker.

                             BAEDEKER:
          Good day, Jones. Fine time for, ah, counting 
          barrels, eh Pomegranate?
 
                              JONES:
          Oh, aye. I-It's a real a-ablactation ablepsia. 

                             BAEDEKER:
          Is it now? I suppose I'd agree with ye on that. 
     
                              JONES:
          Mm. Aye. Ah, Capt— I mean, Baedeker, Captain 
          Irene said that talkin' to ye would, ah, be a
          p-problem. I could get in a real moonmast mable, 
          s-sir. 

                             BAEDEKER:

         (leaning in slowly) Oh, aye, did she say that, 
         now? 

                              JONES:
         (leaning back as BAEDEKER leans in) A-aye, sir. 
         She said she'd cast a macaroon mandolin on me, 
         sir. 

                             BAEDEKER: 
         (leaning back out) Oh, a macaroon mandolin, eh?
         How awful. (he fake-pouts)

                               JONES: 
         A-aye, sir. 

                              BAEDEKER:
        Well, ye know what I think, Jones? (leans in 
        even closer)
 
                                JONES:
       (frightened) No, sir. I don't, s-sir.
 
                              BAEDEKER:
       (whispers) I don't think that's a very sound 
       decision.
 
                                JONES:
       (gasps, and backs away) S-Sir! The macaroon
       mandolin, sir!

                              BAEDEKER:
       Oh, I know about the mandolin, Jones. I know
       all about the mandolin. In fact, want to know
       another thing, Jones?

                               JONES:
       Not particularly, sir, but I feel like you're going
       to tell me anyway!
   
                             BAEDEKER:
       I don't even think she's fit to be captain of this
       ship and this crew!
    
                               JONES:
       SIR!
                                 
                             BAEDEKER:
       I doubt she's even a witch!

                               JONES:
       Sir, I don't think—

                             BAEDEKER:
       She's false, Jones. She's a liar. She's played us
       all for fools, Jones!
      
                               JONES:
       ...Sir?

                             BAEDEKER:
       Oh, yes, Jones. It's all part of her convoluted, 
       childish plan! She's a coward, and a liar, Jones. 
       And a thief!
                  
                               JONES:
       A thief, sir?

"Lose yourself in the art of selflessness," they say.

Lose yourself in the art of forgetting yourself by dedicating your heart to the meek, the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the thirsty, the naked, and the oppressed, for what is better than a life of poverty and self-service?

No personality. No flavor. Just gray.

Selfless, abnegation gray. 
Her eyes are a festival of warm tears; 
her ears are a melody of cold fears,
for the aria she once heard has turned black—
black as a tire that has hit a flat.
The world is a void of endless solitude,
for the world she knew is quietude.
Vibrations rise through her feet;
now, she won't accept defeat,
for if she is the mighty dragon,
she will wave the flag and
sing her battle song:

I can hear,
I can hear
but in a different way.

I can speak,
I can speak
but only with my hands.

Deny me or don't;
tie me with rope;
I certainly won't
give up my hope
to be seen as someone
who can hear
and speak.