If everyone got to live their dreams
Who'd write about them
Why'd you write about it unless it was broken so many times over and over again, that writing about them was the only way you could live it
Would you write about love if you weren't heartbroken
Broken dreams of some make a good recipe for dreams of many others and many more
The last of your scars has healed today
The scars you had inscribed on my skin
Like Bukowski used to, on his typewriter
The last one of them grew skin today
The last of your scars has been washed away
Could I bleed some more for you?
It's not about finding someone who doesn't hurt
For when you love is when you entitle yourself to hurt
It's not about finding someone who wouldn't leave bruises and scars
For when yours bruises fade away and your scars grow skin is when you grow up
It's about finding someone who hurts and yet heals
It's about finding someone who gives your scars and yet caresses them like they were their own
Love does hurt, almost always
Does it heal, is the million-dollar question
