“Very often I'm told that my heart's cold. That I'm the type to let my eyes speak what my mouth won't. That I've got some secret sorrows, blues for days, and endless pain for tomorrows. Call me cynical, call me miserable, call me emotional, call me depressed. I wear my heart on my sleeve because you see art never derives from happiness. I want you to lick my words, taste my wounds, drink the last drop of my bitter thoughts, swallow the reasons why Im distraught. Sweetheart my soul is so lost¦”
