No one will love you more than I do,
you’ll probably realise in a month or two,
but by then it will be much to late,
for the lovers of this world hardly wait,
they search for souls that shine like theirs,
put on this planet to find their pairs,
soon I’ll find someone that appreciates me,
for you clearly never did, and one day you’ll see,
that you made a mistake, and gave up something truly great,
but by then my dear, it will be too late.

Today we had sxx.
One minute, two minutes, three...
A round of applauds.

Twice did our love see the roses of
St. Valentine's rising sun.
That which follows,
worse than the one foregone.
For we were never
the type
to
obey.

The fourteenth day
of that second month,
he came to me
and I heard him say,
"My darling, for you I bestow a gift!
The gift of irony -
no gift at all."
He knew me
and he knew
me
well.

Then the second Valentines
saw that this year
I'd have a gift for him.
A gift he'd rather not hear.
A gift I'd rather not bear.
The gift to end
all
gifts.

He's happy now.
He has another now.
And I'll be okay so long
as the sky remains blue,
and the setting sun leaves
the clouds
a rosy
hue.

Remove these photographs
from inside my skull.
Can't you see
they're making my heart too sore?
Take these rose-tinted glasses
from upon my face -
for I cannot
bear them
anymore.

I glanced at you -
an expression of calmness.
You hold your alcohol well.
You hold yourself better.
Art holds me together,
but it's all a waste.
Paint left to crack,
sxx, expended energy,
words that will fade,
alcohol pxssxd away.
It's all a fxckxng waste.
A taste of escape short-lived.
Some hands were made for rings,
others to wave goodbye.
Love is art of a devilish kind.
Survival of the fittest became
a game of Russian roulette
in the players hands.
And we play forgetting that the bureaucrats
are masters of counting cards.
The barrels will fire either way.
Sobriety will not save you
and wine will deceive you.
It's best to leave them for the masters
and play your hand anyway.

Don't fall in love with an artist.
You'll come to love the way
the beauty of the world
reflects through their eyes
in an awestruck childish glimmer
and you won't remember how to see
when they're gone.

No one will love you like an artist can.
They'll memorise all the tones
of your skin
and perfect the shades
in every mound and valley
and they'll only paint
with black and white
when you're gone.

I told him
     “I’m going to buy lots of make up,
some expensive clothes,
                              you know,
          the ones that come with logos,
and get a proper hair cut.
That’s how you like your girls,
          isn’t it?”
He walked over,
planted a kiss on my head and said,
“I like them smart,
                which you’re not being right now.”

And I think that was the best thing
                        he ever said.

I'm easy to fall in love with.
(I shouldn't be)
I'm not easy to love.
(My God I wish I was)

I'm the kind of lover
that will waltz the streets at 2 a.m
just to see you.
The kind of lover
that will write you poetry
from across the seas.
The kind of lover
that sheds a tear
as my fingertips graze your skin.
I'm the kind of lover
that loves fiercely.
I'm the kind of lover
that hates ferociously.

I'm the kind of lover
that will pour fuel on your jealously
to feel the heat of your love.
The kind of lover
that can turn to ice
and freeze your heart with one touch.  
The kind of lover
that at any instant
can become no lover at all.

I'm the kind of lover
you don't want to love.
I'll elate you and destroy you.
I'll give you the stars
and make you watch as they collapse.
I'll gift you roses
and watch the thorns bleed you.

I'm the kind of lover
you love to love.
I'll drive a thousand miles away
and walk back home to you.
I'll burn every poem I wrote you
and hand write every one again.
I'll push you down
and bear the sky to stand you up.
I'll destroy you and rebirth you.

I'm not easy to love,
and my God I wish I was.
One day, I know, I will be.
My psychiatrist said so.
Just you wait.
I promise,
I'm worth the wait.