The boy's embrace is a universal cure.
His embrace is short.
His embrace is the drive inside my lungs.
His embrace is fiction.
His smile is a privilege that only Kings, or probably Queens, should witness.
His smile is rare.
His smile dissects the most choking, black clouds and pumps through the sunlight.
His smile isn't my doing.
He is the breeze on the Equator line, relieving my burns.
He is normal.
He is my down fall if I am to misplace my foot.
He isn't mine.
YOU ARE READING
The Confessions of a 90's Kid
Poetry"Words are weapons: for warriors, for war heroes, for worrying teenagers and therefore for me."
