if you asked me, i'd tell you
that i started reading the master & margarita
in st. petersburg...
then in the warsaw airport...
and that i liked tsar peter's pickled foetuses...
but that i found the hermitage
a bit leopard-print leotard tacky,
i mean a little bit ****;
nah i mean really really **** ha ha,
i mean it was like a carboot sale in essex of a gallery:
classics just jumbled up, a junk shop in the least;
homelesssness of paintings invoking
a translation of the cube into traffic parallels:
like a desecrated jewish graveyard of paintings
stacked against each other like tombstones.

You're the one that walked away
From someone who still loves you
Unconditionally and would do
Anything to see you smile
Someone that cares so much more
For you than they do for themselves
Who wants you happy
Who wants to know how your days been
You're the one that made the mistake
So I guess you were right
**You didn't and don't deserve me

I don't know what I've been thinking.

Not sure why I've been acting
Like I don't exist.
I have missed
Every bit
Of my waking soul.
And yet,
I've put myself to bed
For too many nights too long.

When did I stop loving myself?
I can't remember how or when or why
Or if i tried
not to let this part of me die.
It could be all the times
I couldn't get the tears to dry.

All I know,
is I apologize.

Because it used to be real.
I want to get back to how I used to feel.

And honestly I have known all along.

I chipped in my small effort
breathing in and out

keeping my heart beating
a belief in loves need

- need to love
me and all those I like least

Equal in all things
loves pinnacle, beckons.
-