Once you, you and you,
made me cry in my room,
and when I say,
I'm happy for you,
I truly mean it

And all those times,
I curse you, you and you,
late at night in my room,
and you're all dead to me,
just know,
I don't mean it

As there must be,
balance in the world,
there are you,
and me,
writing opposite word

I've come to find,
there's two types of poets,

-ones that can't write a word,
and ones that are stuck writing-
in their childhood room

hours pass by,
I guess days sometimes change,
months, I haven't known in years,
somewhere deep inside my mind,
words howl once again,
call me to write once more,
I don't want,
not now, not yet,
time shall come when its due,
paint pictures of a world so new,
a magical place,
we shall all be in a queue,
a world, not ruled by a few

they say two roads
diverges, hoax!
there's a lone crow,
on every highway,
one that i vow,
resembles,
a modern day poet,
breadcrumbs,
in a blistering,
debauched sphere,
thy be our totem,
post-mortem gravestone;
"death by thousand poems"