“Rise and shine, rise and shine. Fractious hope in life divine. Rise and flicker, rise and fade. Til’ death’s clasp I can’t evade.”

I am so sorry that my feelings have the audacity to not be contained within one short sentence.

You’re a beautiful enigma and warmed in charming wit.

You demanded silence and I became sonorous.

Somedays, I just need to switch it all off, and turn to the trees.

Lets conduct a study. Let’s pull up a jury. Are you a beautiful person? or inclined to wanton fury.

You don’t deserve her, but the least you can do is damned well love her.

I’ve brought myself back to life more times than I can remember. And when I say I brought myself back, I mean, I have clawed, clambered and coaxed myself from the precipice of self destruction.

I am ruled by emotion. She is a fickle leader of a volatile kingdom, where conniving skies cast intemperate clouds over my constitution.

I looked again at my new ring and in that moment all I knew, was that the greatest of adventures would be revealed in with you.

Champagne on our lips and desire on our minds and you can leave those painful memories behind and you can bring your hand to my heart as we kiss. There’s nothing else but us on nights like this.

How are you yet to learn? I don’t want grand gestures. I don’t want the world on a plate, the best life has to offer, material things or flashy gimmicks. I just want you with me.

Burnt mirror, smeared glass. Do you like what you see? If my body is a temple, then my poetry is the darkest vestry. My mouth is a chalice, and these words are sacramental.

Still, I wrote. Even when the police where coming. Even when my whole body hurt, and the slightest sound would make me quake.

Go on then, color me broken whilst I feign my surprise. Let me summon some sorrow for this wreckage inside.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and watch me spark like a match tossed to tinder.

With all these past fears still written on my skin, it bruises me to let you in. Trauma’s that this body holds, still guard these tactile lips untold.

When the aristocracy catches a cold, as it is said, the working class dies of pneumonia.

An imbalance between rich and poor is the oldest and most fatal ailment of all republics.

The poor go to war, to fight and die for the delights, riches, and superfluities of others.

Most people would sooner die than think; in fact, they do so.

When you live for others’ opinions, you are dead. I don’t want to live thinking about how I’ll be remembered.

To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already 3 parts dead.

I believe that when I die I shall rot, and nothing of my ego will survive.

The world is not better off without you so stay.