25/07/2016
If age is but a number,
Then we are not too young for love.
Oh, how I wish I could scream it
From the top of my lungs.
I hear the shouts
Of my neighbours to
"Shut up! We've heard enough!"
For you do not exist,
And I have yet to fall in love.
My heart has never fluttered
At the sound of a name.
My lips have not met another's
In the cold of the rain.
I may not know what love is,
But I know what it is not;
It is not empty promises
And affections that are bought.
So how is it that I can write
Of things I have yet to know myself?
Don't you know writers are dreamers?
Fantasy is where we excel.
YOU ARE READING
Charcoal Skies
Puisi❝IF I CANNOT WRITE OF MY WOES AND I CANNOT WRITE TO SAVE THE WORLD, THEN WHAT, DARE I ASK, IS THE POINT OF WRITING AT ALL?❞ A collection of thoughts, ramblings, and poems detailing the composite materials of a war-torn mind. Not recommended for thos...
