You bring so much to the table
and mine's only good for two,
it's so tiny, that sometimes
I eat while standing, too.

Now I'm not really nice,
but with you I am just naturally submissive.
And you're holding the dice,
we're not playing games, but the rules are subjective.

You bring so much to the table
and I only brought a picnic mat,
it's a shame, what could I offer
if I'm just eating scraps, like a cat?

And I want to be your only or favorite vice,
I am ten toes down, I can't change my objective.
Or maybe I just want to be your constant, like rice.
I am a case and crime, come inspect me like a detective.

You bring so much to the table
and I do too, but are you even ready for our feast?
Would you come to the kitchen with me,
I am here waiting for you, won't you come to the east?

So many plans, too little time.
So many faces, only one in my mind.
So many hands, is holding yours a crime?
So many places, but yours is the gold mine.
Too much things to do,
when should I schedule you?
Too many appointments made,
when are you asking me on a date?
So many dates in the calendar,
when’s the day you’ll be my groom?
So much to lose like racing cars,
tell me when exactly is the day of doom?
But I have so much love to give,
yet there's reality to live!
And we have a lot to grieve,
yet why do I still believe?
There used to be a brain where my head is,
now it can’t be saved by a broom.
"There was a sane and stable woman here,
if lost, find her in the emergency room."

Maybe you will see through history.
You will find that this is how things used to be.
Maybe it's really supposed to be me, honestly.
Things only got in order, cleaned up the corners.
Maybe this is for the best, and it shall be, no wonder.
The streets that you thought you knew is not all that is.
Maybe it's not me and you, but could I still give you a kiss?
The city doesn't intend to take more, but to give, please believe.
Our city sheds tears daily for weeks.

Maybe you will get enough of reality.
You will see that there is paradise in the urbanity.
Maybe we were meant to be apart so we could listen to our hearts.
Things would only get messier, but I will be crazier.
Maybe I got the right tools to help you feel better.
The city is not after you, it won't drown or drain you out.
Maybe my letters are futile, you are who the scripture is about.
The city is for ours to reign in, or you could come when it's raining.
Our city bleeds weekly for months.

Maybe you will read through my poetry.
You will get in between my metaphors and subtleties.
Maybe you're supposed to show me how to write.
Things would be better if certain things didn't happen.
Maybe it's all part of a bigger plan, who's holding the pen?
The city that my children will be running in is one we can't hate.
Maybe there's reason and logic for everything, even when it's late.
The city will be the witness, in my arms is where it's warmest.
Our city will no longer cry and bleed for years.

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I thank
that in a world so vast,
at how wide time stretch,
you and I still met?

I do believe in God,
who else could orchestrate
such a boundless union as ours?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I pray to
for your safety and peace,
knowing that's not something
I could offer you and give?

I do believe in God,
who else could write and design
such a flawless experiment as you and I?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I give credits to
for moving seas and history
and my stubborn mind,
thinking the impossible like you'd be mine?

I do believe in God,
who else could make someone like you for me,
and our islands that we will swim and live in?

If there is beauty in death,
there are hundred deaths in beauty.
If there is winning in suffering,
there are thousands of suffering to win.
Where is the red carpet to the exit door?
Is the way out the end all and be all?
Where is the limousine to forevermore?
Is winning truly at our beck and call?
Teach me how to say a graceful goodbye.
How do I make you read one more line?
Tell me a way to a more flawless farewell.
How do I make you come out of hell?
There is death in beauty,
suffering in winning,
winning over death,
death of suffering.

Est-ce ce que font les vrais hommes?
Ils répondent et font preuve de clarté.
Est-ce ce que font les vrais amoreux?
Ils expriment et montrent leur vulnérabilité.
Je fredonne:
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que doit faire une vraie femme?
Que doit faire un vrai amoreux?
Mais quel choix ai-je?
Quel autre choix ai-je?
Est-ce que c'est ce que font les vrais hommes?
Il revient, clairement.
Est-ce ce que fait un vrai amant?
Il exprime son amour, avec vulnérabilité.
Maintenant, je sais quoi chanter;
Je prie pour savoir ce que je fais.

My heart is a walled city,
an inner city with fortresses so high.
On all corners, cannons await enemies.
I protect my heart fiercely for I know
how fierce my heart and love can be.
My heart is an inner city,
protected by centuries behind me.
On all eight gates, soldiers are guarding closely.
I have walls so mighty and high for I have
been dragged bloodily through these streets.
My heart is within a walled, inner city,
yet somehow you have authority,
you have some special key.
I am a newer, poorer, younger city,
some jewel or pearl of the east,
tell me, are you my king?