Who’d want to be remembered as a lover
that gives everything they ever had
to another soul, without thinking twice,
Midnight drives, snuggling so tight next to a source of warmth,
that will soon leave them broken, into the flashing lights?
Who’d to be known as a self-proclaimed poet,
whose only talent is to write in tears, and silenced thoughts,
romanticizing sadness, thriving in rages,
consuming humanity’s madness, living life in the fastest lanes, head first,
just to finally retrieve deep in the woods, turning blinding colors to shades of greys?
Who’d never want to be set free, and stay forever a prisoner,
of eternal chaos, and never ending voices buzzing in their heads,
just to produce such beautifully tragic masterpieces that cut,
on papers, and in some less unfortunate ones’ hearts,
obsessing over loving the hardest in one’s limited youth and given beauty?