I took the rhyme inside,
Rushing to it's meaning.
Without a form,
it's just me.
We once were children
twirling in circles and
finding another playground.
Fidgeting in your skin
trying to make your own shape.
Muting is your signature
to misunderstanding conversations.
I have a language often turned away;
frail in its body
tired to be written and read.
But, literature is always the same
Cheeks or paper.
It's origin are childish conjuring
of like roses and like violets.
Colors of red and blue
easily make a rhyme.
Your distaste for the truth
make me impressionable
Looking for you with expressing.
Quiet in your perfection;
even the sweetest face can break something.
Simply, have a blank canvas
with red and blue.
You are abstract
and I have a rhyme.
This is poetry.
Swiftly I'm turning pages
for the mood of this language.
How curious that letters have a sanctity,
of words and lines.
But feelings only has its owner
and I'm bringing up both.
Childish conjuring of like roses and violets
Colors of red and blue easily makes a rhyme.
Roses are red
violets are blue
you broke my
heart in two.
YOU ARE READING
Three by Thirteen
PoetryI finally found my old notebooks and I told someone that I would post my old poems so here are three poems from when I was thirteen. I did cheat a little by fixing a couple of spelling errors and adding punctuation. I won't be adding any more to th...
