As a scrawl of words to a writers best work,
you are my everything.
As the endless drafts to seed the art,
you cling to me,
we grow together.
Sewn into me,
bound to me,
as a writers pen to his hand.
And then like the destruction of a storm to his loose pages,
you grab me,
make me cry whilst saying nothing.
Like the words on his pages,
your hands rip into me,
into the delicate binds of my heart.
It tries to pump but does nothing,
I feel nothing,
like a bad book on a bad day.
Like the writer embellishes his words,
purple and blue decoupage covers me,
red paint tries to stick me back together,
And then you touch me,
your delicate mouth on mine,
like a book with a happy ending.
And then you force me back together,
you are forced to be mine,
you are the only one that can fix me,
you’re the man.