I wanted to write a sad song, a real sorrow, an artist, a vertical of pain, anything to make it cry, to make it cry. An authentic remorse, a thing with a wet tear, terrible. If it's not self-obtaining, it will sell better than the Bible, the Bible. I tried my old ghosts to get them to pull my feet. I felt all my symptoms, poured oil on my past, my past. I have to find it, this thing that creaks. I have to bury this heart, this target heart. Yes, but here you are. I may be looking for clouds. I'm raging, I'm raging. There is none, there is none. As long as you carry me to paradise at arm's length. I won't be, I won't be, I won't be a cursed poet. Cursed, a cursed poet. Cursed, cursed. Today there is nothing to do but happiness and good air. The sky here spreads out all blue. And not the slightest trace of blues, only happiness and even better. One hand on your heart, the other on your belly. And as far as the soul goes, no mourning or drama. I only have my love to resell, because here you are. I may be looking for clouds. I'm raging, I'm raging. There is none, there is none. As long as you carry me to paradise at arm's length. I won't be, I won't be, I won't be a cursed poet. Cursed, a cursed poet. Cursed. I wanted to write a sad song. A real artist's grief. A vertical of pain. Anything, as long as it weeps. As long as it weeps. As long as it weeps. As long as it weeps. Because here you are. I may be looking for clouds. I'm raging, I'm raging. There is none, there is none. As long as you carry me to paradise at arm's length. I won't be, I won't be, I won't be a cursed poet. I breathe. I breathe.