People are laughing at me today for having holes in my pockets, and ink blood on my fingers- a thirty-something old writer, who strangles words from dictionaries, and feeds on the decay of poetry.

A circle of friends, doesn't always keep perfect relationships.

It's useless to paint a closed door, in order to change its color. The door needs to be open for both sides to change as same.

All she wanted was a family, all he wanted was fame; as their relationship famished.

Farther from the sun, a father and son. The soft moon chasing after, the sun running away; a lunacy of circles that separates the darkest of space. Stars hanging like a collage of reflecting mirrors, pieces that once radiated beauty. If by chance, the moon changes to blood and the sky spills its red, the willing time, will tell in time, if when all is too late.

I was the first face you saw when you were born, you were bald as my hair ran black. Now yours the last face I saw before I died, your hair ran black, as I was bald.

Should it happen, that your partner leaves you for someone else with more money. To where later you strike it richer than the person they left you for, and the ex finds out, after losing all and regretting. It was a blessing that it ended. Though money wasn't sufficient then, mostly they were rich with your love, now suffering being broke in both.

I kiss her ghost, and sleep with the dust on her photograph, next to my bedside.

Love has no fear, willing to take on anyone. But how much we fear love!