You know, sometimes people who don't deserve your thoughts come to mind. And you are one of those.
Maybe that is why it is dangerous to let your mind wander. Every wanderer needs a lodging for the night, and you so happened to be that old, tattered shelter in sight.

Some hate rhymes- it's juvenile, for the imbecile.

Some seem to find comfort in it- like the hem of her dress she fiddles with; like the feeling of his teeth, against teeth. It's like seeing old paths in the woods, as though you will never lose your way.

The idea of you was so easily uprooted with even the slightest winds. Fancy naming someone after a hurricane. I wasn't sure if that was heartbreak. After all, you never held it. It slid right out my throat along with the words I said to you. And I wish I could take them back.

I am over you, really. But I can't help that the thought of you always hits home. After all, you were a place I dwelled in for such a long time. Even after you were long gone.

Fill this tastevin with something- anything. Your unsaid words tasted foul. And I just want any trace of you to be removed from the tip of my tongue.

For you were a cliffhanger; and I was hanged.

Sweet dagger, pierce that midnight beauty,
that walks like cloudless climes and starry skies.
Go now, men, and do your duty.
Steal the schemes of other rhymes.

I am the captain of my ship; I am the master of metre and time.
I've mastered the art of thieving wit.
I've stolen the fame of men long dead
and staked my claim to the fruits of their minds.
I can write words yet unsaid;
But I've not the mind;
I've not the inclination;
I've not the creativity
to write my own lines.

If this rings too close to home,
perhaps you ought to write your own.
More likely though,
you'll just steal mine.

Clenching. Teeth. Rattle. Sleep
is a memory.
She is dead to me... Or so I said.

Screaming. Teeth. Clench. She
is a memory.
Sleep won't erase this shaking dread.

Cigarettes. Teeth. Corks. Whiskey
is an elegy.
It reminds me there's a world outside my head.
Or so they said.

I should write you October
and I swear I tried, but pens
aren't ribbons, and this time ink isn't red.
The autumn wind whips through the fens.
The chorus line is silent and sober.
The lead singer was found dead
under the bridge. (Haha get it?)
I knew it was stupid soon as I said it.
I swear I tried to write you October
but my heart heavy head
is full of Autumn clovers
and fickle friends.

I should write you November,
and I swear I tried, but our lives
aren't fair, and this time love isn't sweet.
The leaves have stopped their tumbling dives
through infinity. The wind won't remember
a time when I moved sound so complete
that it shattered time. (When you first became mine.)
I knew it was stupid as soon as I uttered that line.
I swear I tried to write you November,
But my words can't compete
with these Autumn lovers,
and these passionate crimes...

My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.

It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.