The problem still is that I would rather die

Of passion than of boredom

And yet I flame up when that fire burns out

I am my own arsonist

Lighting little fires under my heart

Caving in and digging the embers out

What kind of wind are you?

Will you blow me out?

Or make the flames engulf my skin?

I swear I will burn us both down

If you ask me to

Most men want a warm love

A hearth and a home

But more and more I know

I am a house fire

I am the purging burn of the under growth

Without this passion and pain

How would new trees grow?