I come home and look at my room
like I would the stranger that I ******
and didn't leave a phone number to.

I see the blank walls and smell
the sent of stale paint and think
of a life more privileged.

I can't help it.
I live in a box.

I see the world of money
and fame,
I live it.

I stay up and bite my nails
to dust
like it's achievable.

It's ******* not,
and I don't want it.

But I do.

love isn't a transaction.

I am a cold, bleak and weary melody;
Forced out of guitar strings, alone,
a solitary piece made by a starving man.
My low notes bring down the sturdiest ship,
dragging its corpse to lay down on the sea-floor.

I am a low pitch plea of woeful "help me";
a drowning man swallowing water as his
mouth seeks the air.
My voice is wispy smoke of years of no use,
contaminating the very lungs from which it originates
from.
And sleep, she is a blissful siren.
Bringing me to underwater caverns-
chanting and humming melodies as the pressure
takes me down under and my eyes close in surrender.

I am more dead than my corpse will ever be;
just an empty sea-shell-
no pearl, no life.

I want to ******* against the wall
until you murmur my name like pleading to a saint.
On your knees begging the devil for release,
gasping, writhing, stripped of all formality-
we'll make the cold moon blush and hide.

I'll teach you sleep is not the only thing to succumb to
at night,
to measure time in breathless sighs and pray to
another God.

I want to have you,
until you forget your name and remember but mine.
Sweating in the night, bodies intertwined.
I'll let you eat from my red apple if you share yours with mine.

To my first follower,
for taking the courage to click on the tab.
To my first like,
for taking precious moments reading my design.
To the ones who followed after,
for taking notice of my mind in pixelated patterns.
To all who shall come after,
I won't ignore the precious deed.

Thank you for the ones who stayed
as well as those who could not take any more of this ****.
I know I am depressing, banal and even dull at times but
for each and everyone of you who thinks I am worth a heart;
I could not have asked for a better companion who shares
this lovely craft.

Let's continue awhile longer,
reading and writing
listening and trying
and since this is getting a bit tacky I'll end it here
remind all of you that I appreciate that seemingly simple click.

(you are the frost that gently spreads across the corners of my windows, like grape branches in a vineyard all stretching towards the sunset in unison, you are a miracle and you are a phenomenon, but you are too fragile and beautiful for me to touch. You are my morning cigarette and you are the reason I pray. You are the atmospheric Jazz music that fills up the souls of men who spend countless nights trying to forget about love. You are undeniably palpable. Darling, you are a woman, the universe is constantly in awe of you.)

I barely know you.
I don't know your
favourite colour or
how you like your coffee
On a cold morning,

I don't know a thing
about who you loved,
or who loved you

I know none of these things.
but I do know your heart,
your soul;
you intrigued me like a
new book in the winter,
Darling

I want to be a tree.
All that they do
       is love.
They allow the cold weather to **** their leaves,
yet they shed them gracefully,
and peacefully wait through the winter
rooted in the ground with the knowledge
that again one day, they will be warmed by the sun
and unfurl tiny leaves
again.
    And again.
        And again.

and even hold the body of a soul as they look up at you in disbelief and say
"Look what trees can do"