Has the bitterness of my lips reached
The aromas of spring.
My Dear -
I say
I open backdoors where doors were never ment to be.
I unfold the moon as if I drew it out of thin air.
I dissolve worlds an make new ones,
as if I was the true created.
I whisper in a soft voice an say
"I now live in pages written with my own blood".
P.S It's not how much you write,
It's how you begin to grow roots and gloom in darkest hours.
BY E.R.S
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
Has the bitterness of my lips reached
The aromas of spring.
My Dear -
I say
I open backdoors where doors were never ment to be.
I unfold the moon as if I drew it out of thin air.
I dissolve worlds an make new ones,
as if I was the true created.
I whisper in a soft voice an say
"I now live in pages written with my own blood".
P.S It's not how much you write,
It's how you begin to grow roots and gloom in darkest hours.
BY E.R.S