what a dream.
My voice becomes a tender stream
, a flowing passion
a beautiful illusion of this future
a figuring lurking the inner parts of my arms.
i want you bliss, an ignorance worth writing of,
mend this broken heart, a broken mind, scratching on the surface of romance
yet i feel with these rolling eyes
and the shade of time elapsing as i glance two his forefronts,his eyes.
My throat becomes violin strings
and a melody, shrieking as my lashes slowly collapse on the bottom follicles
of my eyes
I
see not a man but a singular overture.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
what a dream.
My voice becomes a tender stream
, a flowing passion
a beautiful illusion of this future
a figuring lurking the inner parts of my arms.
i want you bliss, an ignorance worth writing of,
mend this broken heart, a broken mind, scratching on the surface of romance
yet i feel with these rolling eyes
and the shade of time elapsing as i glance two his forefronts,his eyes.
My throat becomes violin strings
and a melody, shrieking as my lashes slowly collapse on the bottom follicles
of my eyes
I
see not a man but a singular overture.