The Storywriter Writes her story daily But little did she know Of the problems she faces daily. The story had in mind, Its details were all but forgotten. She forgot the wording Being compelled to use
The sun carries a refrain i cannot hold. The warm chatter of her voice- A beautiful elegy that hurls me to the marble floor. Her eyes paint the colours i had only dreamed to hope Her song a hope, For
Maybe it was her Maybe it was me But many times she just didn't get the heat Or even agree to flee Could be why I was always so sad May be why I am always mad I just couldn't get the fad She is the on
Comments