Dear Artist,
How can I say this? Million things rush in my head, and i want to tell you everything. But i know of your dreams. You wish to splash your heart on the canvas, sketch your soul on the blazing fires of art blocks and you would delicately mould the visions in your head into fragments of beauty. You are an artist. And I, am in love with the artist. You wish to open an art gallery. Begin a retro sexual art revolution that would appear both dark, mysterious and addictive to most people. The world would embrace you, your works and your face. That cute, sweet, lovable face that would melt the hearts of thousands. Why don't you see me? Why can't you just turn your head and say, "I love you, too?" because I am a poet who bleeds emotion, breeds enlighten, breathes expression and banishes envy and you'd never see me. A curse upon my torn soul. Because it's my fate to melt into the scene and to observe. You shouldn't bother. Someone better would come along.

The artist. The poet.

Two crying hearts, two pulsing souls. boundless till eternity draws to a close. i would speak of a time that knew no end and you'd paint a picture that love knew no stranger. With our fragile souls and heart-felt minds, our hands would make the world ours, much till the hour passes. I would stalk you, dream about touching your face, brushing your hair, holding you and loving you. I would obsess about you, dream about you dreaming and then, write long passionate poems about you and I'd wish that you'd love me back.

WHO AM I?

You might ask. I don't know. I'm still wondering. You won't know. I'm the kid in the background. Okay, I made you laugh a little. I made you laugh. No kidding. We'd be great together. You're great. Seeing your face makes my head fill itself with air. I love you.

Love, Peace,
Poet.