If I knew where the good songs came from, I’d go there more often. It’s a mysterious condition. It’s much like the life of a Catholic nun. You’re married to a mystery.
I have tried in my way to be free.
I didn’t want to write for pay. I wanted to be paid for what I write.
I am an old scholar, better-looking now than when I was young. That’s what sitting on your ass does to your face.
As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armour themselves against wonder.
And this is our time-keeper, with a passion for percussion.
My page was too white My ink was too thin The day wouldn’t write What the night pencilled in.
Here is your cross, Your nails and your hill; And here is your love, That lists where it will.
I don’t trust my inner feelings, inner feelings come and go.
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love...
We do what only lovers can: make a gift out of necessity.
Everytime you grab at love you will lose a snowflake of your memory.
The less I was of who I was, the better I felt.
Creators care nothing for their systems except that they be unique.
Everybody knows the dice are loaded.
I finally broke into the prison I found my place in the chain Even damnation is poisoned with rainbows.
It’s you my love, you who are the stranger.
It’s true that all the men you knew were dealers who said they were through with dealing Every time you gave them shelter. I know that kind of man It’s hard to hold the hand of anyone who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.
And here you are hurried, And here you are gone; And here is the love, That it’s all built upon.
It’s not a cry you can hear at night. It’s not somebody who has seen the light. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.