She was a delicate flower,
With a sweet aroma and bright eyes,
With petals of ruby and turquoise skies,
With a soul that moved dynamically,
While she stood statically,
With a tendency to love,
Even when it wasn't enough,
With a tendency to hate,
When she knew not what to appreciate,
But still she was a delicate flower,
Her hands soft like cotton,
A touch that could never be forgotten,
Strands of silk from her head,
Crimson cheeks to flush out the dead,
Of her pale complexion,
That seemed to section,
Her from others.
But still she was a delicate flower,
With well spoken lips,
That hardly ever did trip,
Over the intellectual words she spoke,
Or the bad air she smoked.
Such a delicate flower,
Can hold a great amount of power,
But only if,
You allow it to grow.
YOU ARE READING
Book of poems
PoetryThis is basically going to be a book of any poems that I somehow manage to create in between writing my book, enjoy! I hope you can comment your interpretations of the poems and we can start a discussion on them:)
