I could never quite put his smile to words. Fill my notebook in scrawling ink to describe it. His smile was too gargantuan yet too minuscule to be put to letters or words. Even if I had an infinity of words it would never be enough yet to much to describe his smile. It was too perfect to be encapsulated into a mere poem. His smile was like living poetry, living and breathing in me and when he smiled an anthology of butterflies erupted in my ribcage. And sometimes that's the only poem I have to write.
-S.D
YOU ARE READING
Bleeding Ink
PoetryI will not pretend to be a poet. I simply lace letters into words, words in verses and these verses are my feeling which have slowly bled through the pages of my notebook. This is my "Bleeding Ink".
