perhaps I am nothing but a torn poet
bleeding my thoughts on some wet footsteps
somewhere in Brooklyn
writing words of a love being loved too much
of a love that was never satisfied
a love that was never enough

perhaps I am nothing but a wondering soul
bed ridden on some broken mattress in Ireland
drenched from the mouth at dawn
overlooking an ancient castle and wondering
how many women cheated on their husbands in its rooms

nothing more than a person responsible for a slower beating of many hearts
responsible for the faster pace of others
something smaller than a thin anxiety running through
the blood of someone I left
or of another person who will never understand me
of another who will never come to terms with me
of another who tore me
of another who did not love me the way I had wished

lavender breaks its seal in some of my mornings
waking me up from the dead with flushed cheeks
and other times rising to the song of the death still stitched in my
empty pupils

perhaps I am just another person who broke too many times
who was sifted on the blackest ground until I lost my mind.heart.soul.
and became nothing but a bottle full of words

nothing but someone who lets the coldness break with the warmth of whiskey.
and the fire of a greater pain