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cheyennechenoaPoems
You looked like a poem, And a poet at once. Why don't I start writing again? Your big blue eyes, Framed like the dome- And your hair, it's fairly, Just placed all over. A brushstroke and a cup of coffee, I smelled as you walked by. That was about two years ago. I swear you might be a crackhead, Cheekbones perfectly sunken Like trees in old ponds as they melt Into the earth-y, ethereal moss. But at what cost? A swoon of many, they tripped their step. None of them greatly regret, I bet. Your taste in a counterpart, Aligns like the sun. Her hair perfectly held, Like your own welcoming home. Each curl so curled to be beautifully seen, So to hold it's place so magically. I wish I were her.
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Dec 24, 2025
Dec 24, 2025 at 11:21 PM UTC
That One Mysterious Musician, Son Of A Painter, Guy From The Hallway
You looked like a poem, And a poet at once. Why don't I start writing again? Your big blue eyes, Framed like the dome- And your hair, it's fairly, Just placed all over. A brushstroke and a cup of coffee, I smelled as you walked by. That was about two years ago. I swear you might be a crackhead, Cheekbones perfectly sunken Like trees in old ponds as they melt Into the earth-y, ethereal moss. But at what cost? A swoon of many, they tripped their step. None of them greatly regret, I bet. Your taste in a counterpart, Aligns like the sun. Her hair perfectly held, Like your own welcoming home. Each curl so curled to be beautifully seen, So to hold it's place so magically. I wish I were her.
Written by
cheyennechenoa
F
Dec 24, 2025
Dec 24, 2025 at 11:21 PM UTC
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