My metaphors moisten by the sprinkles of your venin. Instead of that, they spill ambrosia in your abode.
The numbness in my words are the loudest screams on the silver pages of your grimy and torn diary.
The flower of euphoria blossomed in your garden, piercing my skin with intense thorns & my heart screeches.
©when_eyes_narrate
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 4:02 AM UTC
My metaphors moisten by the sprinkles of your venin. Instead of that, they spill ambrosia in your abode.
The numbness in my words are the loudest screams on the silver pages of your grimy and torn diary.
The flower of euphoria blossomed in your garden, piercing my skin with intense thorns & my heart screeches.
©when_eyes_narrate
Request permission to use this poem