I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?

I miss you sadly and so much!
And even if I just don’t know you,
Or maybe I won’t nay find you
And in no case and never lose you.

I miss the words. I miss so much
The words, that never will be spoken,
The dreams, that knotted not on me.
They’ll be fulfilled not us, but someone.

I miss the hands. I miss so much!
They would be able to hug sweetly.
I miss the hair, careless a bit,
And lips… Yes, lips! I miss them really!

I miss their touching, hot and sultry,
Which can just never been delivered.
But even as I never know you,
I’ll love you truly with a quiver.

Sometimes it feels,
As if you choke me.
Telling me to do as I should,
But limiting the thoughts I get out of my head.

I wanted this,
Bliss.

I’m a human library.
My heart is single page with one bleeding word.
An empty carcass pervaded by nothing but
shelves and books.
Cut me in half, letters shall pour out.
Calligrams in my fingertips.
My eyes spell a p o l o g e t i c, in advance to the librarian tasked with decoding my being,
Death by literature, cursive written fate.
I’m a human library.
My brain misspells the word love on purpose
It always only finds the characters that spell your name,
as if it was the only way I was taught.
I used my fingers to write memories in every
system I could comprehend.
I understood what it meant to be a library.
A walking poem.
A talking blue ink pen.
I have touched every pain-cured wall
in this museum,
so ask me anything about him, the pages to my mind will unfold
and you will be filled with the same knowledge
As that of a librarian that used to work in a morgue.

You want words?
Fine.
A poem born in the dark,
Posted under borrowed light — right?

You chase beauty
Because you’re scared of the blight.
You hide in daylight,
Where nothing really shines,
Yet you still commit the crime
Just to earn a ******* dime.

Yeah, right.

You call it pride,
But it’s fear inside.
You drink outside,
Act like you’ve survived,
But you’re hollow.
No one sees what you’ve swallowed.

You want a poem?
Look at the line —
Where the girl’s always right,
And you still want to fight.
You walk with pride,
Like you won the night.

You dream her.
You please her.
You think you ******* deserve her.

Your mind’s disturbed.
You smile soft,
But fall hard —
Every **** time.

You want redemption?
Then speak.
But you’re weak.
You preach dreams
But drown in extremes.

You try,
You cry,
But never ask why.
You bleed in silence,
Cling to violence,
Think pain is defiance.

And still —
You think this is poetry?

Alright —
This is your poem’s ******* theme.