My dreamy world of writingis a graveyard shrouded in fog.Where each story has a grave,each grave has a character.These living, breathing corpseswith open eyes, raspy voicesand souls, gaze on through my eyes.

There is a keyhole to my heartthough there is no key holder.A keyhole to the wonders I dream of us,wonders that only exist within my mind.This door to my soul locked and windowless,you beg to enter even if only...

I possess an illness,an addiction to your drug.A sip of rose wineand conversation intoxicates me,and I am left cravingthe petals of your rose.Symptoms of lonelinessand the longing for you,I have no regretsfor my addiction to you.Your beauty is thus...