You came to me
as an empty book
aching to be filled
with poems.
So I reopened my wounds
for my stories to flow,
and with my pain,
you found home.
But homes get cold,
and words get old.
Your pages
that were once alone
turned into a place
where I no longer belong.
— Jan Di
YOU ARE READING
In Dreams, We Find Our Rhymes
PoetryWell, I just can't describe my poems better than how this piece of mine describes them. 🌠 "What My Poetry Is Made Of" I am not someone who has rich vocabulary. My phrases, my clauses will always be ordinary, so I just use the simple words that I...
