so the poetry came quickly.
words streamed down my lips
like licorice on a hot day
like a pencil down paper
a straight line never looked so good.
but it was startling how exhausted one becomes
when the sun decides to set early
and the world was so much better back then.
Music cannot express the notes going on in my head
it was a mark of insanity to hear your whispers
even after the silence began to dissipate.
A little Mahler in the morning
A little Alexisonfire for the afternoon
and perhaps some live jazz for the evenings that I spend alone
After you've left
After the world decides to go.