A poet without status, without a pen, without a keyboard is a dead poet.
Lately, I've been longing for poetry, for impressions of love, I'm trying to evoke my old deadly poison and my old appetite for love.
Should I fall for you again?
There are dead recollections of you within my dreams.
My cuts were healed over time transforming into a solid wall of jagged scars.
Oh god, why this profound urge for love?
Am I longing to be hurt again?