Under my heart,
There lives a poor man,
That calls himself hate.
He is dressed in crusted blood.
It seems that flies are drawn to it by a magnetic pull.

He speaks to me when I'm lost.
He distracts me.
He loves to hate,
And he hates to love.

Laying upon my heart,
Is a wealthy woman,
That calls herself love.
She is dressed in a flowing river of knowledge.
And no one truly knows where it comes from.

She speaks to me when I'm aware.
She guides me.
She loves to love,
And hates to hate.

My heart is the ongoing battlefield for these warriors.
The blood left to cake its inhabitance.
And in the end your heart chooses which one will win.
The mind every now and then gives a word of advice.
The heart hardly listens.