Maybe it wasn't the sound of home that scared me, it was the way he spoke. It's not like he spoke loud, or that he yelled. It was soft, soothing rather, and I loved him. I was terrified to love because I was a storm and he was a wooden house. He had his stormy days and I had just spun up. What I didn't understand was why he ran into the middle of it, with rain pouring and trees falling, cars crashing and power lines going out. I didn't understand why he risked such a tragedy. I hated being near him, I was afraid to get close. As he grazed me it felt like a town burning against my arm, and when his lips pressed against mine I felt like the ocean crashing against the soft morning sand on the beaches of the usually hustling and bustling San Diego. Maybe how a dog digs under the pure white picket fence. I hated it. I was afraid. Not of him, but of me and home and his voice and coming in contact with him. But I was in love, so was he. He liked to watch the waves crash and the world get destroyed. That's why he pushed my curling hair behind my ear as we listened to metal with our legs intertwined. That's why he kissed me with such passion and our lips crashed together like a tornado and a tsunami. But when he kissed my skin it was like silk against fire. When it's all said and done it's easier to break. Because he was a rabbit and I was a fox with a whole lot of hate.
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My poems
RandomI will write my deepest, saddest thoughts here. Warning, you may cry, or scream, or tell someone you love them more then ever. But please don't be angry with me.
