Every time I write a poem
About someone I like
It never ends well.
Maybe it's the writers' curse.
Is love only meant to be written?
And not experienced?
It's a sad perspective,
But it must be true.
Romance seem to solely exist
In the novels I read
And the poems I write.
Love seems so out of reach.
When is it my turn?
Where is my Prince Charming?
YOU ARE READING
twenty four
Poetrywritten by a twenty four year old in the year of twenty twenty four.
