I’m a writer
I **** my own joy to jolt down words
I **** heroes and I see beauty too late
I leave people just as they leave me too.

I’m a writer
I destroy the people I care about, make them leave
as I run and I miss them when their bags are packed.
But their stories still travel my world;
my pages.

So, I think I’m a writer.

I find my muse and I get afraid and
the demons inside of me force me to fill
the pages. And I do it.

Only to realise a muse might
also be someone I care about.

But I push people away.

And I give myself a lonely life;
in which I bleed and sweat for empty
words and empty stories.

**4.04.14

Distant cars somewhere nearby
Travelling unknown places and
sleeping people in their beds.
Wet pillows. I think my roof is
leaking.
The sound of shoes on soaked
dark pavement and the smell of
damp clothes - wet hair.
This was supposed to be our moment.
                                                                    And you sang.
But it kept raining.

**March 25th 2014