there was an urban fox a cheeky chap was he
roaming round the city roaming wild and free
climbing in to bins searching for a treat
routing through the ******* for a bite to eat.

looking out for windows that were open wide
then inside the window the little fox would slide
all around the house while people were asleep
looking for some food the little fox would creep.

then when he finished eating back to his little den
take himself a nap then roam around again.

Look behind you,
What you may see may disturb you.

What you once were
isn't what you are now.

It's not the physical appearance; the way you dress
Not the tone of your voice,
the change in your character –
But the difference in your demeanor

You've developed from a carefree soul
to a figure you never imagine yourself being

The lines on your face,
developed from years of hardship;
days in which you endured, prevailed
fell back down, got back up again

Weeks in which you worked day to day,
Just to make ends meet. Months in which
You struggled to keep up on your feet.

Your past self imagined the world would be cold and dark.

In every way, you see it's worth it.

Worth each waking morning.

This may not be what you wished for
When you were younger...

...It's all a part of living life.

We eat, we drink, we live, we die.
Pay our debts to survive.

We have to live through hardships,
To make it throughout life.

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Your days will be musical
The nights will have their own song
Not anymore will you look at things as regular-
The trees will seem to give you more than just shade,
The sunlight will trickle down on your skin
Bouncing off the window pane
The wind will do a waltz through your hair
Your eyes will carry the universe in them
All the things will not be the same again.

If you ever fall in love with a writer
I don’t promise that it will be easy
For, writers can be insane sometimes
What good is love if you don’t jump off sanity?
They are forgettful. Terribly so.
They will not remember anniversaries
Or to buy tickets for your favourite show
But, they will never forget how you smell after a bath,
The colour of your eyes,
Thoughts of you will never escape their mind.

Writers can be clumsy,
They will trip over their own shabby scattered notes,
Spill the ink onto a fresh piece of poem
But, the way their fingers will trace stories on your bare skin,
And how they will carefully settle
The baby hair on your forehead before kissing,
Will seem to you as their finest work.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
They will never tell you how much
They love you back until,
Your absence makes it hard for them to breathe,
Makes you more of necessity.
They will, then, hold your hand,
Close their eyes
And cry like they have already lost you;
The tears will spread over their face
Like delicate words on paper,
With each one rolling down their cheek
Their clutch of you will grow tighter.
It is when they open their eyes,
Look at you as a miracle in disguise,
That each part of their soul will sing
To you their love
And the million “I love yous” you wrote to them
Will not be enough.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Kiss them in the stormy rain,
Drive them to a distant place
They have never been to,
And watch carefully their expressions change,
Build them sand castles
And let the tides wash it away,
Don’t buy them flowers
On Valentine’s day.

For every blown out candle,
every Mazel Tov,
every turn of the tassel,
you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages.
It’s never a notebook we need.
If we have a story to tell,
an idea carbonating past the brim of us,
we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin.
In the absence of pens,
we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number
of a parting stranger
until we become the craziest one on the subway.

If you really love a writer,
find a gravestone of someone who shares their name and take them to it.
When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home.
Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name.
If you really love a writer,
bury them in all your awful and watch as they scrawl their way out.

If you sincerely love a writer,
They will carry you inside them
Till you are all they remain,
Hold you like the glint in their eyes
If a writer falls in love with you,
You can never die.

I’m stuck at a crossroad,
where my mind, body and spirit are trying to meet.
They are trying to move at the same pace,
move on the same beat.
But they fail to do so.
They are always nearly in sync,
but they always stop in their tracks before meeting.
Almost like an acquaintance who looks familiar but you are hesitant to say hello.
That ‘hello’ never transpires,
that ‘hello’ never meets that familiar looking person,
just as my mind, body, and spirit never meet.