Each written piece is a love letter I’m sending straight to your heart. Each syllable an attempt to prove to you that the man I am is the poet you said I could never be. I don’t care much for the opinions and views of those around me. They can sink in a river of piss for all I care, but there is a need to show you that the faith I put in my dreams wasn’t to be laughed at even when laughter was all I could ever seem to hear. It’s true that I’m a mess, and that writing has left me old before my time, but this is one addiction I would never go back on. My search to find a better place has broken me down, and yet still I search. My attempts at lifting the veil and tasting an energy few have ever had the fortune to taste have pushed me far from your arms, and here I am, a ghost and a phantom and a believer of what I’ve been told all my life never to believe in. Loneliness is both a gift and an enemy. Solitude an ingredient that helps me to move outside of time so I may be at one with all things. But the more it happens, the more I forget the warmth of your embrace and what it was ever like to fall asleep with you in my arms. Such anguish is never spoken of with others, and yet between me and these pages, my memory of you never dims. If anything, it grows with every passing day, and although I tell myself not to, I can’t help but go back to you. And yet isn’t this torment all part of the journey? Isn’t this anguish the very thing I seek in order for me to keep searching? Such dilemmas make my head hurt. I would say they drive me to the bottle, and yet isn’t the bottle another ingredient I deliberately abuse to keep myself unbalanced? So many vices. So many sins. In some wishy-washy fairy tale, I’d let them go and give you all I had to give, but doesn’t that strike you as being just a little bit boring? Wouldn’t that just be so easy, honey?