a drunk poem written at 3:30 in the morning
head over heels
spinning around
like when we were-
child, do you remember
feeling the highs and
the lows
invincible
now we spin
too much and
hang above
the toilet
instead of in
the trees
YOU ARE READING
Sweet Enough
Poetrywe grow like fruits, until ripe and get plucked and discarded, if not sweet enough. *** a compilation of poems, thoughts and other reflections.
