My pens pour pain on paper..
This pain persist from mind to heart, from hand to paper into an intensive trail of text,
further intensified by the tentative thought of what might be next...
A sorrowful symphony,
I tune these letters to words as I write
the notes to my downtrodden heart's orchestra..
I'm in love, but this feels like Hillbrow more than Paris.
My thoughts of you prostitute on every avenue of my mind,
you gave my blind mind a pistol to shoot you;
therefore, I miss you and...
Me missing you messes me miserably!!!
