The glass just shattered loud.
The pointy pieces floating.
Floating into oblivion,
floating into nothing.
Someone just whispered "Picasso".
I looked around,
I looked at the walls.
And a painting I found.
Mona lisa.
But why?
Why do I hear painters and see paintings?
I sigh.
I looked at her,
her smile, her poise.
The picture broke into a million pieces.
Just like all the other joys.
Floating, floating,
into oblivion,
into nothing.
Fly, come fly,
to the new high.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
