My poem warms my nights like a silver moon,
like fireflies on the trees; fantasy is what I longed,
constructed feelings, somehow are unexplained,
like bubbles of morning air, touch my skins.
It's not how I intertwine my heart all of the sudden,
but how our language diverged; beautifully spoken,
and when my mind erects, so slow, for real
that's when I ********* words suitable for her.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 10:13 PM UTC
My poem warms my nights like a silver moon,
like fireflies on the trees; fantasy is what I longed,
constructed feelings, somehow are unexplained,
like bubbles of morning air, touch my skins.
It's not how I intertwine my heart all of the sudden,
but how our language diverged; beautifully spoken,
and when my mind erects, so slow, for real
that's when I ********* words suitable for her.
© 2012
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