Perfect,
That's what you are.
No matter what you do,
How far you push the bar,
They think your perfect,
Maybe you are.
Love,
It means something.
But I can't help but be ashamed,
Of myself and my end.
That I'm just another goal you've claimed,
Another winning,
Compared to my sinning.
You mean nothing to me,
Nothing at all.
You say it's okay,
All I have to do is call.
But I'll pick up the phone,
I'll dial your number.
I hear your voicemail,
Best friend?
What a blunder.
YOU ARE READING
Bones
Poetrythis is a poetry anthology of how the deepest emotions are intertwined within our bones. {cover by the amazing @Night-Eye}
