Sorrow dims her haunted lips
Setting sighs atop their tips
The lowest moods as they dip
But all I can muster is to sit
She thinks too much
Of such and such
Her mind is a jammed steering clutch
But all she refuses is to touch
A prick at the heart
For a fire to start
In her bosom nary tart
Her mouth is soured, eyes they dart
As jitters shake
Guts do quake
Rage ensues his soul to take
A lost love, one she fakes
He's never wanted
Never flaunted
A sitting prize, never sauntered
Spilling lies a simple chaunter
As sorrow dims her haunted lips
Setting sights atop their tips
The lowest moods as they dip
But all I can muster is to sit
YOU ARE READING
Journal
PoetryThis is just a collaboration of poems that I wrote to get me through the day sometimes. Dealing with heartbreak tends to be deep and unforgiving but this was the only way I knew how
