In reality, I write love poems for someone who doesn't love me.
I mean, I don't blame her, we just met, once to be exact.
But if you saw her eyes, you'd make a deal with the devil that you can't take back too.
Now I'm lost here, having so much emotion for a girl that's riding someone else.
The price I paid for it? My heart.
It's absolutely insane how someone can catch you like that, but damn, I have not a single regret.
How could I, my my, you'd have to be here.
She tells me about who's tongue she's sucking that night and all I can do is wish it was me.
She tells me about who's arms are holding her and all I can do is reach mine out and wish it was me.
She tells me who she's loving and goddamn, I wish it was me.
I wish it was me.
Sitting on the edge of a building and I figured I'd clear my mind but instead I'm sitting here writing horrible poetry about a girl I met once and fell for, what can you say for yourself?
Probably better, for sure.
Do I wish anything different? Not really, I think it humbled the fuck out of me.
Gotta learn to sit comfortably at a table with someone you admire as a friend too or else I don't think it's love you feel at all.
I do wonder though, should I stop with the erotic drafts?
I mean, I still have a goddamn imagination.
Her grinding on my cock.
Her.
I should get off the ledge.
I should also stop writing now.
#yk
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Roses In The Sun
PoetryA book dedicated to the thoughts that lie beneath the surface of all that I am, all that I will be, and all that I hope to become. A book dedicated to the outcasts, to those who've felt invisible, to those who want to read and fall in love with the...
