I smiled at my own follies, upon thinking that I made you countless of poems, full of similes and metaphors. But they were now crumpled and discarded as they slowly withered into its rightful place.
But do you know what makes me blue?
You didn't even give yourself a chance to read just one piece of it. I realized, you're not into it. You're not into a beautiful soul full of poetries, either.
I should have known, so I would have stopped myself from drowning in sulleness for making myself wait, just for a slightest chance that fate could make for us. I am sorry, that I am way too tired. I can't make another piece about you anymore, and this is just how my hopeless poetries and pen end its memories with you.
—PrettyMira18
YOU ARE READING
A Poetry of Emotions
PoetryIT'S NOT ABOUT WHAT A WRITER SAYS. IT'S ABOUT HOW A WRITER SAYS IT, TO MAKE A READERS UNDERSTAND IT.
