✶
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
I died in April, where fools perished
and pranksters thrived.
Oh how foolish of me—to think that you
would stay, to think that we would be able
to continue the unusual friendship that we possessed.
I lived once again in May.
How strange it is choose June again to be brave.
I've lived in May— once in January, where I met her,
Once in February, where I was the hopeful fool,
Once in March, where I survived the harsh forlorn.
But not in April, where I ceased to exist from your
deluding mask, where I became the fool you duped.
I wonder what it would be like to live in every month,
to always be brave. The end of June comes near, and
I am tired of being brave.
The world is filled with gold and sky blue wonders,
dripping with precious green nature and the saccharine
stench of June.
- acb.
YOU ARE READING
my poems. nd shits?
Poetryi do not edit them, we die like men here. might update them to make them more fancy but that's unlikely.
