Sep 2014
that the blackness in my heart, pours out of my voice when I speak.
That it was like an ink, that could bury the room so fast that the doors would all simply disappear.
Ironic that I never had this before I met you.
That it was like an ink, that could bury the room so fast that the doors would all simply disappear.
Ironic that I never had this before I met you.
(Australia)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
