There he is.
The one with the ebony locks and bronze oculus.
Ecstatic face but I can tell your head is spinning with sad thoughts.
I have wondered often if those pink lips of yours have ever turned down.
More than often, my mind has speculated about you.
Indigent, Cabalistic, Aberrant,
"Pretty boy what is going on inside of that gorgeous head of yours?"
"A war"
♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚
this is something that i wrote for a new book, that hopefully will get some love, but yeah it's something that got me back into my writing flow.
YOU ARE READING
Scrabbles
Poetrymatchsticks only go to waste when they are lit and once they are lit their lives are slowly being smothered just like humans sometimes i write nice and sometimes i don't all depends on my head
