Oh, give me my exile and send me away,
For passion is the bed that I lay.
My heart being the star poet,
Creating ideas not so foreign so that,
You can know you are the ink in my pen,
And I cannot create the beauty of words with an “if”, but a “when”.
I will not live in a land that blurs at boarder.
I will make it so that I am love’s hoarder.
But a strange habit, I am specific with my choice,
Desiring but one with an impromptu voice.
As my vice, I will fix you until you can see,
Using my words, you won’t have to read.
They paint pictures of what could be and what will.
Here they overlap. You are my lengthy thrill.
Knowing I should know not to indulge in your eyes or you touch,
Whishing that my hands and heart let me do as much.


Alas, I cannot keep myself from you any longer.
This game of catch will be caught. I will be stronger.
Enough for me, and the both of us. I will speak with conviction and pride.
No longer behind my prose will I wait and hide.
You and I are one in the same. I can see you see it too.
The silence overtakes the city’s traffic. It overlaps and cuts right through.
So in this last moment of silence, I hope you hear what everyone sees.
Vice or not. Scared or distraught. You belong with me.