he smells like a vintage petit café from 40s; fresh coffes, cigarettes and pavlova

i'm black or white
either i love too much or hate till my last breath
either i talk too much or don't say a word for days
either i take things so seriously or don't care at all
there is no gray for me
i live at the edges

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,