And with every day
That you are gone,
I can feel my creativity
Slipping away from me.
And with every day
That you are gone,
I can feel my sanity
Escaping me.
And with every day
That you are gone,
These damned poems
Become harder to write.
g.c.g
YOU ARE READING
The blossom of a poet
PoetryWords fall softly like the petals from a blossom tree, drifting slowly onto the paper, creating poetry like the spring, beautiful and light, but just like the seasons, the poetry changes, the autumn comes and the words become heavy, falling quickly...
