Poetry

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Their is a very aweful taste in my mouth, like a thesis stricten of meaning. Their is a song slowly dying, a verse rotting in fire. Irresponsible words format my text and shame my purpose with this novel, but one Sunday morning I'll remark on past revelations and laugh. I'll lay back with the sun brightly smiling and the grass singing classics.

Yes, one Sunday morning I'll let go & brush the webs out of my teeth. Yes, I'm sure I'll smile for real one fine day. But that day is someday and I've learned that somedays aren't always dependable.

Their is something very aweful about my speech, like a poet without heart. Weeks go by and I move with no passion. Cries may come and go like April showers but take a close look at the molecules in my tears and I'm sure you will see that the fakeness is as easy to taste as a Monday morning. But, as I said before, I'll lay awake waiting for a Sunday with you again.

I'll cut out my hopes & dreams, just to lay in your arms once more.

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