If this world was a feild,
It'd be filled with dandelions.
It's dull, dry and grey.
It's true, even if there's the occasional, spontaneous
Slapsh of yellow.
There's nothing special about a dandelion.
Not really.
That's me. The dandelion.
I'm just another dandelion in the feild.
But you? You're a rose.
YOU ARE READING
poems
PoetryBook of poetry. I don't expect you to understand it, but please don't laugh. I don't write poetry usually, but I really need to.
