And why do girls keep complaining,
that they have had their hearts broken;
when they have not experienced,
how that glorious feeling is spoken?
Why do they take this portrait,
to be painted as a bloody mess;
brushing away insidious thoughts,
bringing their hearts to their climax's fess?
Why do they think they feel,
enamored with this love we preserve;
while things that we must conceal;
are things they think they deserve?
Why do they dance with their demise,
when they know their hearts we do not hear,
for in this hell of well wishing opportune,
don't they know there resides only fear?
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
