Flipping the pages of this fortunate instances
Where my path crosses yours
And through those,
My morning never bores
My noon is something to look forward for
And my night is worthy of a snore
Whenever your around, my eyes are on guard
My mouth tries to speak up
And my movement became bizarre
In a distance, at night, I would watch your little figure
Trying to reach you by the quench fist of my palms
Because my everything can feel that it's a zenith of realm
To hold you, is perfect
To see you, is an escape
To talk to you, is a gamble
To have you, is impossible
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
