centuries, hundreds, tens of tens
words spilling from countless pens
poems spread across the ocean
intricate as a love potion
syllables mean nothing to time
two in my head, each one a dime
millions in volumes, speaking lies
the poet speaks syllables until she dies
a hundred is a daunting number
one to wake someone up from slumber
but you're there, behind your screen
you always are, you always have been
a/n: quick little thing for 100 POEMS?!?! WHAT THE HECK. THATS SO CRAZY. I LOVE YOU ALL. THANKS FOR STICKING AROUND (:
~xobrklyn
YOU ARE READING
A Little Thing Called Death
Poetryi won't explain many of these. they are for you to work out and they'll probably mean something different to everyone. (i own these poems) ((FINISHED.))
