Cravings.

The mood of the mind
Was altered gently
And worsened.
What I book it was, on love and defeat.
One dwindles the hope perpetually,
To gain the drama.
To let hair down and mourn.
Rain outside and by the window sill,
I sit.
I wish my pain was extreme.
I wish there was a book on it,
And men read it and sob.
Even the most stone hearted ones.
But my language all faultered,
And my story, fragile.
Wish it were the victorian times,
Of supression and greater liberations.
I have to do with the mediocre.
The trains they provide me
With short fictions, not worth elaboration.
The love stories of real consequence,
End up in sustainable arrangements.
And now I have too many friends.
Im in pain,but its not the epitome
I shall wait for the one.
The one to enter the dingiest alcoves
Of my heart,
The one to make it blossom and then rupture it,
Destroy it with such force, fatal.
Gift me the pain I long for,
Pain which I shall write a book on,
Which men will read and sob.
Even the most stone hearted ones.