Bobble hats only go with a snazzy winter scarf,
But the gloves you wear only seem to work,
With the redness in your cheeks,
And that mischevious pixie grin
That screams perfect hipster to me.
You say it's too cold,
But that's the weathers fault
Not mine.
And the snow seems to fall,
Around that delicate body of yours,
We finally realise that the cold,
Means that we were meant to be here,
And the imp in my arms,
In the cold cold freezing cold,
And you hate it there,
You said with a nervous giggle,
And that pixie smile seems perfect to me.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry. Dark.
PuisiThis collection of poems is dedicated to anyone who has tried to live but events have led them astray It is a mix of dark, somewhat rediculous and poems of the heart, all written to help myself get through the last couple of months Some of these poe...
