COME ON.
LET THE WRITERS BREAK THEIR WRISTS AND BLEED THEIR FINGERS DRY OVER SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T GIVE A **** ABOUT THEM

Fly struggles in vain
Spider's eyes gleam in darkness
The silken trap worked

Spider crawls on paths
Spotted by the silent bird
Swoops in for the ****

Cat slinks through the grass
Eyes locked on newly plump bird
Poised for the attack

Echoes in her blood
Ancient times long forgotten
The call of the hunt

these are the days that try mens souls
said oliver twist to L'ouverture
and the big crisis is coming
its time to get running!
the british are coming!
"O' quiet ye olde buffoon!"

what's next? I dont know
said gandalf the gold
whose sincere grin forever faded...

he looks outside the kitchen door
the sand men made sure
the sun wont rise any more

it also rises
nevermore...

I've been meaning to write you, but my words are all too stuck in their ways. They wish to be spoken and long to be felt, but to be honest they all lack virtue. All they can do now is hurt you.

Drenched in dopamine
These words swim within
Gasping for air  
They plead for solace
In the jungle of thought  
They inhale agony
And exhale apathy  
They are jaded implicitly
These words
I secretly imprisoned
Still inconvenience me
They ******* my heart
Despite their innocence
I can not trust them
Hence my silence
Hence the look in my eyes
My stomach was weak
I saw novelty in every lie
But to be honest  
I been meaning to ask
Is it too late for us?

We have all sublime love
Hidden in its intimate memory.
We all have a lost passion,
A dream which did not return,
Souvenir for a whole life.
Each of us knows it,
The fate never returns.
There is not more than infinite love,
Which will never sink into oblivion.