This is what I think about boys,
whispering it with turbulence overall.
It's not breezy nor stormy.
It's not sunny nor wintery.
It's a summary of what's not and what ifs.
They are sons of sadness,
God's moulds of madness.
Insights of their lives has never been easier.
They're complexed,
wild magic from folklore lurks within them.
Sometimes they're gibberish like rainfalls,
no unison or specific aim at all.
And sometimes they're like raindrops.
Meticulous,heartfelt and impassioned.
Have I not tried
to guide and convince them to my heart?
But they always give up,
in the midway of our sleepovers.
I've held their hands and cover them in my warm blankets,
only to receive a deceive and heartache.
Angst,darts and a hand on the wheels of my car.
Tied me and throw bets at me,
in the game of their Russian Roulette.
Our bodies may collide but our hearts could not.
Why have I given them control
when at the end,there's no man who would console?
YOU ARE READING
OLD FILMS IN POETRIES
PoetryIt's a film in poetry─A little lively,a little sad,a little death,a little pleasure,a little desire and wishes,a little rest and a little nurturing.
