She's the most alive, when it's two.
Planning for things, she won't grip.
Writing drafts, she won't speak.
Paper and ink, her only sidekicks.
She's the most alive, when it's two.
Laying, grieving, contemplating.
A war between her aching heart,
a war between her craving brain.
She's the most alive, when it's two.
Ecstatic and melancholy, the two extremes.
Scribing something she won't think.
A smooth verse of her insomnia.
n.e
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
She's the most alive, when it's two.
Planning for things, she won't grip.
Writing drafts, she won't speak.
Paper and ink, her only sidekicks.
She's the most alive, when it's two.
Laying, grieving, contemplating.
A war between her aching heart,
a war between her craving brain.
She's the most alive, when it's two.
Ecstatic and melancholy, the two extremes.
Scribing something she won't think.
A smooth verse of her insomnia.
n.e
Request permission to use this poem