Sex, lies, deceit...
Like everything I've got is
Some secret. Truth is:
I don't know a bit of truth
Most people don't already know.
Primal instinct turns me into
A nightmare of a man for that urge,
The one, that in many cases, has
Turned the world upside-down.

Behind every great action is a woman.

Lie to myself, I don't know this.
I don't know just how I became
This hungry thing of constant searching.
Burns deeper than any ember long after
The fire seems out.
My core is so persistent. Don't even know
How many lifetimes I've spent trying
To find that perfect, lovely thing.
Perfect is subjective, but I'm looking
For the counterpart
Who would choose a wreck like me
To whittle away the days with.

My subjective is love.

I'm so enthralled by the notion;
It's the only thing that quickens my heart.
I breach every day with a wish,

One where I might find
Comfort in the ending.