“This poem is a favorite of mine. I feel like it should be in the yet-to-be-released book, although the process is still ongoing. But you can always comment below and tell me what you think. Yay or Nay?”
The idealistic expectations of what is to be, is at times melancholy at best.
We seek redemption in the arms of strangers but for whom is this comfort suited?
Driven into the arms of someone else out of spite. Dusk until dawn, the nostalgic lust could last for weeks on end.
The picturesque beauty of love was slowly tainted by the broken promises on our bedroom nightstand.
For a minute, it would be heaven to pretend, that an illusion like this could be of greater proportion and depth.
Written out by hands cold from rejection and eyes blinded by devotion to a falling grace upon the stars.