I see him in the fields
His pretty hair, uncombed
Swimming in the wrought shoots of wheat

His smell travels faster than sun
Of dry grains and weeds, bathed in sweat
Of moist soil, burnt by scarlet sun

His colour, a theater of wheat grains
His face, an album of old trips
Different shapes play in it differently

Drowning in the rain of dust
His brows are tired of tightening
Over and over, poor them

He waves me, while trying to stand
On the leg that always refuses
Almost there, it flexes and he falls

The brows relax, reality is welcomed
He apologizes in a low voice
A god in the lap of golden soil

I see him in his garden
Where on his fine knee
He is on a fine soil, fine smile

Tomatoes playing in his hands
Leaves slipping through his fingers
And this fine son, does all he can

I see him in rains, when on one
He concluded what i should like
A fine man with fine two legs

(But) There is this one man i like,
Who smells of wheat,  who has a fine leg
He who ever liked me
Pk

I got it
I finally understand
it was never you that I wanted
but instead
the drama that you presented
some would even call it a plot conflict
You see, I'm a writer
I see the world through different eyes
eyes that sometimes aren't mine
so sometimes
my mind is taken over
and my thoughts, they stray

I'm a hopeless romantic
but that doesn't equate
I've never before been so afraid
of my own self
of the words that could come out
because I understand,
and now I have to learn to separate
the who I am from the who I create
it's exhausting being me every single day
the fantasies pop up and leave me dismayed
always in a sour mood, unsure of who I am
of the choices I've made

a line has been drawn and I'm sticking too it
I know that these thoughts aren't me, but lighter fluid
and it's me that holds the power
the lighter only a tool
passion is fire
my inspiration is crude