The cries of broken hearts
and melancholia,
pleasantly melodious to my ears.
I collect bottles of pathetically wasted tears
and use them as ink for my typewriter.
Hopping from window to window,
I come in the form of guilt,
and a tinge of wringing regret.
I will bring you to the highest level
of self condemnation
and keep you miserably awake,
gifted with the soul of an insomniac.
I’d even leave wisps of bittersweet memories
if I was feeling a little sympathetic
or particularly magnanimous.
Certainly, I cannot always be lenient,
after all,
being a sadist is part of the job description.