All my mistakes,
I write and fold into paper planes.
And fly them away,
’Til they land in the hands of someone thinking they have caught a confession,
From an unknown name.
Isn’t it the same as a letter of love written for your flame.
It’s just a piece of heart from which it came,
Carried on a plane.
Is it a time,
Where the selfish is stronger than the right?
Like a white moon shadowed by the shine of a star,
Like a woman’s wide open mouth, but you’re eyein’ her chin’s beauty mark.
Is it all that dark to believe regret can be kind?
If there were no plight, then what would be mind,
If not these scars, these beauty marks?
Here december lays as,
A mirror for what the year has made.
The globe’s parting with a phase,
Where I lived those hundred hungry days,
And those few full nights.
Is it all in spite of the starving of another man?
I’d fix it if I can,
Oh but these empty hands,
These hungry days.