Fiction
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Ripped pages of the books I've crafted for years,
As the characters fall for the plot twist.
The front cover isn't something you blame on heirs.
You only see the good—why don't you make a list?
An hourglass that could last a minute, I miss.
Leap through time and break the wormholes.
Embracing you and sealing everything with a kiss.
If heaven isn't a perfect place, then an angel falls.
Don't shut me out of your castle full of walls.
Isn't it delicate? Having me is committing suicide.
We are hunters in the swamp looking for pitfalls.
Let's steal a car—be my Bonnie, and I'll be Clyde.
Name me your quilt and ink; t'was bona fide.
Any genre would do; my most favorite is your story.
I ain't a dictionary; please, I'm Jekyll and Hyde.
Let's escape this haunted house; we must hurry.
"The end"—why am I still writing pages, my Dearie?
Excruciatingly, you chose to stay with the demon.
I'm an author of fiction; don't blame me, my theory.
Strengthen your soul, as I'm guilty of treason.
YOU ARE READING
Cornelia Street
PoetryThrough sonnets inspired by Shakespeare, I finally reveal the intimate secrets I've kept hidden for so long, even though I'm afraid no one will hear them. They capture the anguish of unspoken emotions I've never been able to say out loud, hoping for...
