Fiction
⋆ ˚｡ ︶⭑ ꒷꒦︶ ⋆ ⁺₊
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 (Republished)
PoetryThrough sonnets inspired by Shakespeare, I reveal intimate secrets I've longed to express, despite fearing they'd go unheeded. They capture the anguish of unspoken emotions, yearning for acknowledgment, only to face silence. First Published: May 5...
