Talking to myself through poetry
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This was once the floor I laid
Whom I craved and so adored…
One I was hundred percent sure
Until it mixed my baking flour
With beautiful ashes and dust
Covering gun powder and rust.
Hence, I am a running fly
Running from sorrows and lies
Pouring down like southern rain
Served as cakes, to wash my brain
On and by the floor, where I lie
Is a place I never wish to die.
I followed flying butterflies as I craved But they landed me deep into a grave I bled right on the floor not just the pain…
Used to think a lot More of lust, no fault A big bum, big breast Pretty face, white teeth… Yet, one met no one Wired…
A special thank you to all philanthropists From east to west and north to south; Up the sky; freely the littlest of birds fly In…
The alleviated pains from cradle to this very day Has been a bundle of joy, a perfect gift I must say How fast the hand…
Good one
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