I know i'm imperfect,
but aren't we all?
lined in an unknown sect,
at the corner shop in the mall,
with my irregular head,
smelling like coffee beans and confusion,
looking like a bad decision,
clinging to a rusted thread,
just waiting to fall to fly,
with these pin feathers of mine.
YOU ARE READING
I Wrote It All For Me
PoetryPoems. For myself, of my moods, my life, just me and my feelings. Most of them are fictious (or are they?). I'll leave it to you readers, let your imagination wander.
