a poem for you, by me.
at every little tick and little sound. a small flinch of realisation.
a constant process of persuasion neglecting procrastination
and on time forgetting.
because all you got is the taste on your lips and the memory in thought. when all that you can remember would be brought,
on tiny little pages of paper.
with not enough words to tell the pain and too many words so you'll feel it all over again.
because all you got are a stack of cheap poems drained in black ink and salty tears. touched by stained fingers, affected by a heavy dose of nicotine.
at every small tick and little sound. a small tear that crawls around.
a constant process of addiction on the pain you want to make fiction.