I'm on the lovely side of the flowerfield,
Where we walk through with our feet.
We are here every sunday,
Atleast we have one day.
I want to have you the whole week,
But then it wouldn't be so unique.
I'm walking through the flowers,
I'm doing that now for hours.
Hoping that maybe you would come around,
Saying how much you missed me.
My feet moving on the ground,
My eyes wanting you to see.
I can't live without your love,
Not when you're my paradise,
You are highly above,
Over all of me could ever be.
My hopes go up when they see you,
They go down when you can't see through,
Through me and all the lies I said,
About how I hate you to the death.
Instead I want to feel your lips,
How they taste on mine.
And your hands on my hips,
Swaying around and walking on a thin line.
YOU ARE READING
Drunk under a Streetlight | poetry
Poetrypoetry /ˈpəʊɪtri/ noun literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.
