-that 's the one / he would write things / my god / he used to give me the pages hand them over with this sheepish expression on his face like he 'd been caught doing something wrong and i would read them i swear to you they made me cry they were so good so fucking beautiful i could taste it / it was poetry pure poetry what he wrote the way he could capture what it was like to be alive what it was like to feel the pain of living what it was like to hope to dream he had it he somehow had access to it found the way to get at it which i 'd been looking for my whole life and never found / but then i 'd look at him and there he was simpering whining snapping at me to cook for him to do his dishes to do his laundry / this man who could capture the essence of humanity with just a few paragraphs and he was absolutely incapable of keeping his own life together .