The desire to write has left me, except for a rare few who still consume my innermost thoughts. Though you, like a spark, ignite ideas unimagined.
When I speak to you, I always have 124 characters. So many things lie unsaid sadly, but I wish to know you better than I do.
Know that I care for you and although we speak from thousands of miles away and from different countries, that won’t change
These fleurs du mal on razor wire are sent to you, torrent of ingenuity, lost in vulgar verse and haphazard rhyming & timing
After all this time I still believe what I said long ago to you: "Sex throughout written word, is your poetry.” Still true.
I have learned that life is not about title, class or diction. It’s about love, honor, conviction to a goal you strive for.
I speak the silent affirmation to myself and God and although it seems rather odd. I’ll see this through to the end