Poetry is strange sometimes. In the way that I'll write a poem, Words flowing freely from my fingertips, About all of it. But when I read it now, It almost feels like its about you.
there has never been this much doubt running through my mind, i’m so used to your hands against mine, yet i’m so scared to let you touch me in ways i’ve never experienced, but i’m also terrified by the mere thought of letting you go.
i have a question for the boy without wings with a twinkle in his eyes who collects many things dear boy, might i ask why do you try when you already know it's impossible to fly
Don’t forget to blink he told me with a wink as I drank that drink and began to think is he my shrink? He has my same ink and he’s wearing the same pink things are too in sync what was in that drink? I need to find a sink get somewhere where it doesn’t stink but anywhere I go I find the same link it has me on the brink it’s time to rethink it’s time we fully interlink
