Watching your expression
As you hear my confession
And I want to
Make you cry.
While my imagination
Feeds your anticipation,
Bitter years
Pass us by.

This is no inspiration,
It's just an adaptation
Of ideals
Lost and found.
Conquered by my creation,
You're flirting with temptation
Yet you tend to
Make no sound.

It isn't my intention
To hold hands with convention,
But I'll have to
Let you die.
It's past all comprehension,
This masochist invention
Married to the question "why."

In every complication
There is some innovation
Irresistible to the wise,
Yet through this meditation,
I hand in my resignation,
One thousand one good-byes.

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