It's so shameful of me: I like you.
It begins in the heart...and it hurts when it's true. It only hurts because it's true.
He drove me home in the van, complaining, 'Women only like me for my mind'.
And though I walk home alone, my faith in love is still devout.
Can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary and psychologically save me?
I'd rather produce art than become art.