Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.

Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.

I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

I guess they call it suicide, but I'm to full to swallow my pride I can't stand losing you The Police Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?