This is a poem I must write,
and hopefully not recite
I feel like an old, twisted,
used dish towel thrown across a kitchen sink
my insides opened wide, and the color of pink
pushed aside like nothing at all
just hanging there waiting to fall
I can’t even comprehended
what my heart must feel
this feeling inside can’t be real
there is just no answer; but when will it end?
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
This is a poem I must write,
and hopefully not recite
I feel like an old, twisted,
used dish towel thrown across a kitchen sink
my insides opened wide, and the color of pink
pushed aside like nothing at all
just hanging there waiting to fall
I can’t even comprehended
what my heart must feel
this feeling inside can’t be real
there is just no answer; but when will it end?
I have written this a long time ago...My first time was not as magical as I thought it should have been..
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