I like writing to you
at night.
Soft and clandestine.
Often,
I am unfamiliar with myself,
so I craft these notes for our benefit.
Sleep swiftly,
my dear.
Parade on lighter thoughts
and rejoice
in heavy slumber.
Still, my soul,
till dawn’s unrest.
For with this pen, I toil.
Berating deities
and mocking convention with shallow language.
Til you relieve my insanity
Ophelia
had not a fairer face
nor tongue.
You are the
lover of my words
and keeper of my thoughts.
Poetry Is Black 