I, is tough to define.
Who the **** do I really think I am anyways?
A musician? A poet? A writer?
Who cares, and why do I feel pressure to define I in the first place?
Roses have been colored red in many a blind mans poem of love
and in so many ways their eyes color them shades of crimson
But the hidden stain of loves bleeding heart cannot...
a love poem; (or complete rubbish)
your absence piles into me
in the afternoon, I will declare myself lonely
at night, I will sit and write poems
to re-enact my thoughts...