i love you but i know i'll leave you. warming your bones have turned mine brittle. i was 14 when the boys with sad eyes started picking me apart im not far from 21 and all I wished for last year was to shed the skins that have touched mine
It's still in here, somewhere, I'm sure of it. The heart I want to give you is somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, or perhaps the edge of the galaxy. I know that I can find it, again, I just need time.
You never knew because you never had the time, And when you let me talk, You would never listen, Perhaps it was my fault that I didn't speak louder, But you should've been there for me
Why is poetry dying when we still have the gift? If we still have water then we still have a ship. We can sail to the places these words take us. We are still shaken by the words that make us. Why should we let poetry die when there is so much to explore? If only people read it and discovered more.