He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

it was not quite morning when i woke in my bed
in the doorway there was darkness and a black figure i read
standing in the doorway in silence, not a word, nothing said
i could just make out its eyes: yellow, and black with a hue almost red
it was staring at me. filling me full with dread
i saw it's hands rested on the doorframe with fingers wide-spread
i tried not to scream but an airy hiss left my head
just as all of my courage and sanity fled
i swear this figure, back into the darkness it bled
until i could no longer tell it from the shadows at the foot of my bed

Please, give me one no-way-ticket.
- No return?