My eyes transmute to dark, forest tones.
(Isn't the forest supposed to be beautiful?)
She's beautiful; nothing at all like me.
I make acrimonious convictions about her, and
Sadly, it provides me so much relief.
I shouldn't preoccupy myself with such maliciousness,
I am desirous of who you are.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
My eyes transmute to dark, forest tones.
(Isn't the forest supposed to be beautiful?)
She's beautiful; nothing at all like me.
I make acrimonious convictions about her, and
Sadly, it provides me so much relief.
I shouldn't preoccupy myself with such maliciousness,
I am desirous of who you are.
Request permission to use this poem