Withering into the quiet,
I no longer keep track of the nights...
You break it all up
in smaller...
You leave me in ruins
and at the end of each...
Oh beloved navel, how wondrous thou art,
A precious mark of a mother's heart...
Poetry follows me in sleep,
trailing down snowy banks...
It's funny how you thought you overwhelmed me,
when really, I overwhelm myself...
A writer not only writes what the writer feels but the writer can also feel what the writer writes |
Being in love is like playing with fire you always get burned |
Must keep my eyes open, can't fall asleep yet, I'm widely wake, but for how long? |