Little house of mirrors
reflects a thousand times...

I took an angel
up to dandelion hill...

I'm pretty sure it's ironic
that I'm writing you a poem now...

I feel so sick
of being alone...

I'm just so sick
of being tired...

Sitting at the edge of the earth,
sweet lemonade in my hand...

Maybe I'll write a thousand poems
and I can change the world...

It seems this snow is burning...
but that seems impossible, you see...

Nearly seven hundred poems
means more than a hundred thousand words...

This chaos seems so beautiful,
like the words twisting on my tongue...

Oh, pilot, can you help me?
These words aren't making sense...

Little girl from cherry hills,
ribbons tied around blonde hair...