the flowers in my windowsill never die.
and you never even seemed to try.
they bring me happiness and joy.
and you are only just a boy.
i will always keep these flowers, but they remind me of you.
at least they stayed for more than a few hours,
unlike, well, you.
my hand is starting to ache,
from the hours of writing about our poor relations.
the only thing you have in common with these flowers is that you're both fake and full of temptation.
YOU ARE READING
a lil' bit of this, a lil' bit of that
PuisiI didn't choose to be here, on this earth. i am forced to wake up everyday and write these shit poems. since i'm already trapped here i guess i'll make a few memories. maybe go for a jog... who am i kidding. i'll stay home and continue writing about...
