The old farm roads a four lane that leads to the mall, and our dreams are all guillotines waiting to fall.

How come I can pick my ears, but not my nose? Who made up that rule anyway? How can you say that's the way it is, that's just the way it goes, why don't you decide fore yourself what you can do?

Love isn't over when the sheets are stained.

Up up up up up up points the spire of the steeple but god's work isn't done by god it's done by people

The windows of my soul are made of one-way glass, don't bother looking into my eyes if there's something you want to know, just ask

People need something or someone to fasten themselves to in order to reassure themselves that they are real.

Somedays the line I walk turns out to be straight - Other days the line tends to deviate.