In the midnight curse I find my callous muse.
Confused,
in the beauty of madness,
with teardrops as pastels,
my heart continues to paint your portrait.
Each teardrop,
as pure as a dove,
is a love word I can not pronounce.
That's the language that keeps my heart bounce,
and pushes my heart to pronounce,
the ''I'm sorry'' words.
No matter how hard I try,
all I do is renounce,
to the flavor that could be savored so high,
in the nature of our love.
Should I do it on the phone?
Or pretend I'm not wrong?
I will let this poem guide my guilt,
and let it decide,
whether to let me sink,
or let me drink the tears that are made to ease my worries.
Nina N.
04.24. '24
