I love the blank page
So tidy and neat
With crisp goody freshness nothing can beat
Behind each white abyss contains endless and endless
In it no one is friendless
So I long to blend and stay a long while
Yet with each stoke I taint and defile
Perfect was she within my mind
I should have know better, I just wasn't her kind
Once full of beauty now grossly debased
My stains seep in and tattoo her grace
What wretched monster am I who cannot stop my lust
I love her dearly no matter her scar
But since her beauty is mine it's greater by far
My guilt of possession cannot dampen her art
Although she seems oblivious to my beating heart
She sulks and she quakes
Her terror unequal though she fakes
I think she secretly loves me
Or else why does she stay?
I'm nothing special just a girl and her pen
She trusts me so fully to put words in my head
My blank page is resting; we've been through quite a lot
I'm sorry for ranting since we're all that we got
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
