How funny is,
the fact, the snowflake that makes me want to write about the winters.
That kisses the pen in my fingers a welcome.
Is the one that freezes them back into the pocket.
Waiting for the birds to greet me summer.
Waiting for the frost bite to melt under the sun.
But, in the end, I'm as untrustworthy as a poet.
As trustworthy as no lover.
YOU ARE READING
Minutes To Forever
PoetryBest at #7 in poetry (29/11/16) There are some thoughts, some thoughts and some feelings. Those who seep deep down your heart, they anchor to your soul. And you can't get them apart, they are one of your own. You look at familiar faces, hoping the...
