The black and white pills
Are failing to cure me,
After three long years of running
It's my feet that's killing me.

I would have ran home
Though I ran from there,
It is only when you are alive
That you begin dying.

Black and blue bruises
Hug me tighter than my own skin,
I wouldn't know I still had blood
If I still didn't bleed so much.

I should have drowned myself by now
If I could reach the sea.
But it is in my sadness
I learnt the opposite must exist.

I am but an echo
Of a call
In an empty city block
For the lost lover
Who has crossed the road too far.

In this
world of progress
I miss
the personal simpleness
of hand-written letters.
The physical connection
of unfolding and holding
the very paper
another mulled over
and touched.
I miss
the discret indentation
left by a weighted pen
as if to add subconscious emphasis
to inked words in a message
of which
I was worth the efford.
And some held
the sender's scent
by design
or accident.
Honest words
written and meant
from one to me.
An intimate thing,
a relic of time
folded and stored,
hidden away safely
those
cherrished memories.
Sealed
With
A
Loving
Kiss

My dear poetry
My love for you is infallible
Endearingly, you colonize my mind
Undoubtedly lovable

But
Please oh please
Leave some part to me
Have to get back to the grind
Please never do mind
Have to keep time

My dear poetry
My love for you is infallible
In you I find my respite
Always be by my side