Honeyandsunflowers Stories

𝐻𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃 Poetry is an ethereal thing. The lines flowing like a river in a garden. Everything perfect nothing out of place. Until you look betwee...