No matter how much you might fear,
No matter how much you may wait,
You know nothings always here,
Except you, me and our bitter fate.
Bitter I use to describe this form ,
Of our cold, hard luck deformed,
As sweet it may be at times,
But reason it is for all the crimes.
It plays a game as if running wild,
It's the reason for every mother and child,
It's the fear behind ones wait,
Just the work of what we call fate.
It's all written some place I say,
It's just a matter of the roles we play,
Perfectly balanced, too good to be true,
Too much related to the things we do.
"If only I'd written the perfect book."
"If only I didn't care of how I look."
"If only that day I hadn't feared."
Well my darlings, I'd have to be deared.
It was all written long before,
Before you were even made mi amor,
Before this very universe was born,
Before had come this blissful morn'.
-Aneesha
YOU ARE READING
Expressions. | ✓
Puisi[COMPLETED] Highest rank - #31 in Poetry (10th October, 2016) Poems. Some, outcomes of our vurnerable past. Some, results of our imperfect present. Others, products of our boundless imagination. Mine? Here they are. ***
