Bed of Proses.

xx.

Our Poem

I got that green shirt one,
Messy hair not done,
And it rhyming as it sounds,
I watch how you play your hands,
In every piece of my heart,
Patiently waiting for breakups to come along,
And if that happen, I could write a new poem.

Our poem are feelings unheard,
The way I look at your rise windows,
It's like a sound that you think absurd,
Til we break then I write a new poem,
Our poem written in my head,
The worst notch that I must should have,
When the time reach eight, gonna sleep in bed,
But before anything else, start a new one again.

My mind pictured everything that day,
And words came along in my head,
I want this sick beat, turn the trumpets on!
And I'll write if I left alone,
Go to doorsteps just like my way,
Til' we reach our lovely death,
But you didn't notice, poems and roses,
With a death note and saying:

Our poem are the ships we submerged,
And I'll stalk you like your own shadow,
It feels good like a song you've been heard,
And I badly need a new poem,
Our poem is your way of turning heads,
And full of sarcasms left unsaid,
When I got that tone, papers and a pen,
As I start the game, rewrite it again.

This world are full of liars,
Can't you hear on the radio,
Waiting to notice their monologues,
Not as the way that I do!

Our poem are deaf, just like her,
I'll state facts to raise your eyebrows,
I don't care now if you'll get hurt,
At least that I write a new poem,
Our poem tells the way you left,
Asking you 'how did you do that?',
And as the days turn nights, need to feel alright,
At the end of day, I have a new poem again!