ෆ::
Writing the scenes from the past,
I've always hoped it would last.
Those flashbacks as if it's a movie,
What's so different from the story?
The curtains blown by the wind,
The old wall we usually paint,
The sunset ended as we yawned,
And the letters that you sent.
Will the green grass grow,
As the hot breeze blow?
Will the sun rise up,
And all my aches will stop?
Will those painful words disappear?
Will everything be crystal clear?
Am I lost or just blue?
But my mistakes were just few!
As the earth turns around,
We will never be able to bring back the past.
Even if I act like I'm found,
Never again will there be the old us.
::
YOU ARE READING
HER BOOK OF POETRIES
PoetryA compilation of poems that I wrote throughout the days.
