S
Sin
Guest
Whooosh
It hits me like
a brick
Self-proclaimed
poet nay artist
Futile words that hold
meaning only to me
Views that my eyes alone
can envision
The air rushes
from my puffed-out chest
My ink is barely dry
and regret spills forth
from my pen.
MY pen.
A fine pair we make
both delusional
and deceived into
thinking
we could
write
It hits me like
a brick
Self-proclaimed
poet nay artist
Futile words that hold
meaning only to me
Views that my eyes alone
can envision
The air rushes
from my puffed-out chest
My ink is barely dry
and regret spills forth
from my pen.
MY pen.
A fine pair we make
both delusional
and deceived into
thinking
we could
write