i write poems of lust and pain and make them read all of the syllables; the people i hate. some call it beautiful, some need awkward modifications but what they don't know is the poem will ring in their nerves as the nights go deep and dark and squeeze all their blood and breaths out of all the canals and lungs. i'd be smiling sitting on my couch thinking of the slow death grasping them and after all descends to an end i'll wake up to my table to write a poem; anew and virgin.
I've two stars painted on my chest Some three inches apart. One of your name and another of mine. You lay close to my beats, I swell close to my beaths We try joining our hands, but we fail. Again and again. And months later we die; You with the beats to live in heaven I with the air the space lacks in.