I hope you find me in my letters, every single one. Once you decide to look at them from your box under your bed hidden by the sun.
I wonder if the guilt builds up with each word I wrote, that you have trouble reading them with each one I meant, I spoke. Because, they are as genuine as the fresh flowers in the valley, as an old childhood memory, as the laughter that leaves echoes in your mind, these at least you never leave behind.
I imagine them as weeds in your well collected garden, flowers lay here of every kind, potted not planted from peoples hearts and minds. But the soil looks healthy, why not plant these instead, well, try and plant your flower and you'll see how it'll grow cold and dead.
So weeds they turn into, letters, love, memories and songs. Merely weeds no one tends to, their vines creeping along. They spread, silently and without a doubt, you'll see them in your garden walls covering flowers wanting to sprout.
YOU ARE READING
Impossible Admiration
PoetryThese are some of my random original works of all the times I felt like I wanted to express myself and my raw feelings, This is simply like reading my diary, contained are which my heart and mind.
