Talk to me in riddle, better yet in prose
Tease me in Latin and make me loco
I'll even be your Italian lover, if that's what you want.
Write me love songs, I don't even mind sonnets
Don't forget the iambic pentameter
Criticise my rhyme and punctuation
Be my Shakespeare.
Colour my heart in red and blue
Trace me in shades of green
I'll be your muse, your own lucky clover
If you paint me like one of your French girls.
Hole me close and never let go
Tell me we're soul mates, that we're meant to be
That this is not a fantasy or that I'm just crazy
When exactly were fairytales turned to dust
And imagination chained in our minds
Was it when our hearts began to rust
Or was it when feelings died.
YOU ARE READING
pathetic poetry.
RandomThis book is updated when I feel inspired, or full of words that I need to put out. It's a diary/rant/patheticexcuseforpoetry. Sometimes I like what I write but mostly it doesn't even make sense to me. But nonsense is the best sense.
