You promised me a story
about what was meant to be.
Why plot with happy ending
is not your cup of tea?
The wind is blasting harshly
ripping the book apart.
Even little bite of mice's
frightful for lion's heart.
The weakening of my mind,
under the thorns and arrows' power.
As easily as butterfly
you fall for different flower.
So close your eyes
and see who I can be
But if you will stay blind
I'm none for you to see.
Here storm blows up the candles
let dandelions flee.
As long as leaves are falling.
It's time to spill the tea.
YOU ARE READING
Ripped Pages of Poetry
PoesíaNowadays I'm thinking a lot in English. Which means I'm writing a lot in English. The grammar is terrible, but writing it down is the only way to improve.
