It doesn’t interest me

what your opinions are,

Or your opinions about opinions;

Tell me, instead, what can be.

Tell me what makes you want to sing,

Or cry, or scream,

But don’t worry how you say it.

Sometimes the precise word

Really is fuckin’,

like That fuckin’ ice we’re all gonna get killed on.

It doesn’t interest me

who you think you should be,

I want to know who you really are;

I have a suspicion

I may be that person, too.

I’m not interested in your perfection,

Tell me what’s wrong with you,

And let us both feel the glory of want,

The hopelessness that’s cured

By wanting hope,

The faithlessness that’s cured

By wanting faith,

The lovelessness that’s cured

By wanting love,

The loneliness that’s cured

by seeing each other’s true, laid-out-souls

Bared, yes, vulnerable, yes

But invincible, too.