I could never will the sun to shine
no matter how hard I try
I could never will a flower to bloom
if the rain won't fall from the sky
I could never will my heart to die
no matter how terrible I try
I could never make love swoon
no sun, rain or flower bloom
can spell me from my doom
I could never promise to promise a word
if return is hard, unflavored to taste
I could never will my eyes to blind
no matter how awful my lies
I could never sing with eyes unchaste
No truth, no promise or word to taste
can separate my heart from the paste
What is a dreamer to do?
Who is the vision, what is reality?
Why won't these eyes materialize
the sun and the rain, a flower in bloom?
Where is the truth, a promise, a love?
Why is my heart rendered eternally doomed
bleeding for what the poet never wrote?
I could never make love swoon
No sun, rain or flower bloom
can spell me from my doom.
I could never will the sun to shine
no matter how hard I try.
I could never will a flower to bloom
if the rain won't fall from the sky.
I could never will my heart to die
no matter how terrible I try.
I could never make love swoon --
no sun, rain or flower bloom
can spell me from my doom.
The truth is a word spoken in haste --
the paper tender of a world in waste.
I could never promise to promise a word
if return is hard, unflavored to taste.
I could never will my eyes to blind
no matter how awful my lies.
I could never sing with eyes unchaste.
No truth, no promise or word to taste
can separate my heart from the paste.
What is a dreamer to do?
Who is the vision, what is reality?
Why won't these eyes materialize
the sun and the rain, a flower in bloom;
where is the truth, a promise, a note?
Why is my heart rendered eternally doomed
bleeding for what the poet never wrote
or dote. So I smote him.
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