I am a hot mess of bad habits. I smoke, I drink, I struggle daily resisting more insidious addiction. Perhaps worst of all I’ve been known to write poetry. I am possessed of poet’s heart and a cynic’s mind. As I sit alone through the day I may think of some interesting thing to say in some poetic way, But I would never utter those words as I am quite sure they would strike completely absurd. You make my heart race such that I wonder if it ever beat before you smiled at me. What’s a person to do with such caprice? Where do you put that in your head that it doesn’t change the person who said it? The longest hours are those spent in waiting between our brief encounters. Does that mean anything? I don’t know, but it’s dangerous. It may set a soul to thinking. While there is magic in words there are no magic words. No turn of phrase, no matter how clever, can turn a heart that isn’t open to the endeavor. This is my worst habit. The others kill and isolate me. But this; this defect of mind, this need for the pen, this want to burn, this imperials any who might think me tame enough to know intimately.