A pen,
firmly sat in the bosoms of her fingers.
Tentatively displaying his virility on a paper.
That shimmers like it has just been immersed in blood.
The words,
written,
stink like burnt bird feathers
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
A pen,
firmly sat in the bosoms of her fingers.
Tentatively displaying his virility on a paper.
That shimmers like it has just been immersed in blood.
The words,
written,
stink like burnt bird feathers
I keep on reflecting on this Poem because every time I get down to write, I know it, I was told to some extent, I got implored to check on the diction I use, they said, "Your words stink like burnt bird feather".. very single day of my life, I ask myself, which kind of bird feathers .... perhaps on day I will get an answer
