He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

apart from breathing through your nostrils?

Thit's begin of cos to you,
Then to speak to go to me.
That okay to you to skin,
Then to go my motherland.

Its begin to you the night,
Old of spring together six.
Months all need to square but,
In the ship to go to skin.

That o big to go to need,
In the building to the boy.
You a long to boy my spreak,
That a long to you my dare.

Cow you bing all needed go,
You can break to user skin.
Six and months to you my friend,
Its okay to go to you.

your note reads like
'gone for groceries brb'
but you left this life
and forced me to grieve.