tonight.

i'm planning to write her
a poem. but not to get an impression. you know,
i hate the idea of wishes and hopes. anymore
and it seems like, it's better off just to kill the weeping
and just to be numb. and cold
sometimes.

but no-
not now.

i can see her face
in that bit of spilled brandy. on the floor
reflection on that hard-bitter-liquor is ripping my soul
apart. ignoring my presence
.(in her eyes i am nowhere!)

it's not really beautiful, you know
counting the many slumberless. hours
feeding the time of thinking the lies
of her.

it sucks.

i can't even write
at this moment, not even a fragment. not even a finger can grip this pen
worn loosely from my hand. and i'm starting to believe
a sword is mightier than a bloody
fucking pen.
.(and i can't pretend!)

and so.

i'll just write her a poem tonight
because now, the sun's still up
and dark is more appealing
in the mind.