I turn to look and ask when you're staring way past anything known to man. Would you fly with me?
We seethe and writhe in pain. We know nothing will be the same. So would you fly with me?
Alone, but with me. Alone, but with you. The feeling is mutual. I ask can you fly with me?
I don't know anybody that would cry. I don't think they'd ask why. They'd figured you'd fly with me.
If we're missing and found. If we're safe and we're sound. It's the same. Would you fly with me?
We'll never come back. Even in halfway regrets. Nothing can change. Will you still fly with me?
After all of this. After all of that. After all the looks. After all the tears. Knowing. Would you fly with me?
YOU ARE READING
Lackluster writing...bad writer.
PoetryConfessional poems. These are how I feel about myself and the things around me. These poems mean a lot to me. I may not be a good writer but I wanted at least anonymously to share them.
