i am the poem and the poetess,
with irregular rhyme patterns and
dreams in clouds brewed from midnight coffee.

i am a prose neatly typed out,
handed in ten minutes after the deadline
stained with morning black tea.

Why do I need to love myself,
when I have your words comforting me
                 like the cup of hot tea in my hands and the blanket around me
                         this cold winter night.

Its not a bad life
just a bad day
so get high
because the world
is too low