A young boy, the lonely poet they called him
He was a truth no one could see
At night he escaped from his room and roamed the barren alleyways
hand in his leather jacket
stolen bottle of alcohol in his backpack
drugs in his bloodstream
words stuck in his throat
it's a funny thing
the fact that he felt the night air understood him the most and was willing to listen to his broken whispers of speech
he longed for a certain type of romance
he longed for the smudged ink in his notebook where his soul resides to merge together and form a girl that will **** him whilst bringing him back to life