Lately, all the darlings have started tasting the same and all the books keep preaching about the catharsis of going forward and I'll not be condemned to be Lot's wife's' tragedy but ******* this is growing up and everything is shrinking like the bible my mother threw in the washing machine by accident. All the wild has gone to my fingertips and there is no longer an energy to board trains to god-knows where because I know better now.
I don't longer miss you and I call my father daily now and I have a fond appreciation for dead things. Sometimes I think of all the times I prayed and all the times I sinned with you in mind and I know this is the guilt of poets. We are the victim and the instigator, we play our cards right and you resent us for it. And I write to you because it's easy to say things to people you hate. Like kissing someone and not tasting their blood but someone else's and enjoying it. Revenge in, not one, but all the ways you know how.
I often dance naked to Claire de Lune, do you know why? There's an elegance to being primordial and vulnerable. There's grace in things we find obscene. I cannot dance, mind you but I dance thinking you're watching. Much like shaking the hand of  a married man and lingering with his wife within earshot, there's a thrill knowing you'll be caught.
Thus, I write my inhibitions and fears in poetry hoping you'll someday read them with absolute stoicism. I dare you to show a little emotion. I dare you.

sometimes I want the blade other times I want you because honestly *what's the difference

In his seasons passing words wither and fade with the sunsets reprise.
These images paint portraits with grey backdrops tattered, twisted throwing stones across the pond only to hear them vanish in the dark waters below.

All the pretty flowers fully in bloom untouched by earth and unsoiled in the dirt of corruption of an existence lived in regret.
Bitter pills and torn pages have we not traded are truths to be lies created for are own protective womb of deceit to fulfill our ego.

All the pretty flowers wither just the same.
As standing skeletons left only to haunt the backdrop of our thoughts decay.

Are we not monsters?, Who once stood as men with great views whose vices consumed them turning us into something we can barely recognize ourselves.

Soil once fertile now seems only scorched a barren square of emptiness once were all things did grow.
All the pretty flowers mourn springs passing this concrete idealism for which no direction seems to suit us best.

I stand where here no longer will anything grow.