i wonder where,
these words come from?
these questions without an answer?
this love, when i can't be sure i've ever truly felt it?
how do I feel at home when i'm writing? when i haven't had the chance to know the words that are falling onto my pages so beautifully,
like the scent of sunset after a heavy day
my heart smiles, assuring that this wonders,
love and art
are eternal, that they're limitless
i can see flowers blooming onto the concrete wall of my lungs,
ears that remember the songs my mother used to sing,
skin that feels yours on mine,
i stood strong down to my last bone,
it's not butterflies but a nightingale that flutters in my stomach,
the way my eyes see the moon, the star and the universe sparkling on and off in the sky,
and like this, i become a poet of me, myself, and the world around me.
VOUS LISEZ
BETWEEN THE STARS & YOU.
PoésieLove is love. "We accept the love we think we deserve" _perks of being a wall flower. p.s the life I regret from every nook and cranny.
