I write way too many poems. I should probably be shot. They are all crap. I am not being modest. If you like them, that is chill. Whatever floats your boat man. |
Simplistically I walk through slyly hidden rooms
Known only to the walls by which they are...
She smiles at me
The sweetness in her laugh...
The fan spins slowly, in the room
As we sit and talk of things...
I know you
Know I've seen you before...
The silhouettes of loveliness
Are lost...
I tell you that I love you |
The end of anything is in fact the begining of everything else. |
The world was set up perfectly |