Looking at him was like looking at a plethora of stars against an inky black sky. He always seemed to be a paradox, too good to be true but bad enough to not be pretend, a neutral, never too positive nor too negative. A fire, beautiful to look at but still destructing everything in its path. A ray of sunshine in the eye of a hurricane but also a little hurricane in the sun. Hot chocolate in the summer and ice cream in the winter, delicious but at the wrong time.
-he was full of good intentions but all at the wrong time
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".
