Here's to the writers,
The hopeless romantics,
The dreamers who create their stories with cuts of a knife in paper made of everyone who has ever told them they can't.
Here's to the people who said they can,
The ladies who have smudged enough of their mascara with tears, to create ink on paper.
The men who go against society and say "I love poetry."
Here's to the thinkers,
The achievers,
The good doers.
Here's to you,
May your romance be hopeful instead of hopeless,
Something I can finally say.

For the girl with the bow in brown hair,

            the heat from the upstairs
restaurant cures the street where we walk,
            the freight’s in on the track,
you can tell by the horns,
            I from the diesel smell below the
afternoon clouds, faint above,
            sometimes when we speak a heart rate
somewhere peaks,
            another graph pinned to an office wall
shows this clear,
            sometimes when we talk tense chests
fear the answer you may say,
            the graph strays past paper and onto
those office walls, in red with a palmed
            smudge where you forgot where
the words ended.

            For the girl with the bow in brown hair,
your eyes are theatre-light reflections in twenty-four hour
window panes sat packed neatly off the corner of West 47th
and 7th, for you’re my central Times Square.

Don't say I didn't try.
I asked you,
you ignored me.
I tried to contact you.
I apologised SO MANY TIMES.
You didn't say a word,
you never replied to my messages.
You think you're the only one who can get *******?
You think you are the only one entitled to that feeling.
That's just who you are.
Selfish
I shall not be wasting my time anymore.
If you wanted to be in my life,
you never would have left.

With a foot stuck between two trees,
thoughts fail to flow,
blood does too.

Which tree do you chop down,
to set yourself free,
or burry yourself under.

Could you just cut off the foot all together?
Killing two birds with one stone?
Surely you won't make the wrong decision,
or will you?