Post by aiden on Sept 28, 2005 21:09:58 GMT
Essays On Love
His heart is enclosed in a burgundy book
The edges torn, the binding gone
It reminds me of him
His mind is drifting in the strong wind
Not finding a certain direction
It reminds me of him
His body is sitting on a wooden chair
Cracked, Wobbly, Worn
It reminds me of him
His mouth is closed tight with a grip
Nothing escapes, words are sealed
It reminds me of him
His fingers move with a certain grace
Fluid motion, an odd hold
It reminds me of him
His foot taps to a subtle beat
Quiet, soft, touching
It reminds me of him
His ears attract unusual sounds
Sounds that are unnoticed
It reminds me of him
His face shows no emotion and great emotion
Mixed like the world, colorful, unique, different
It reminds me of him
His heart is enclosed in a burgundy book
The edges torn, the binding gone
It reminds me of him
His mind is drifting in the strong wind
Not finding a certain direction
It reminds me of him
His body is sitting on a wooden chair
Cracked, Wobbly, Worn
It reminds me of him
His mouth is closed tight with a grip
Nothing escapes, words are sealed
It reminds me of him
His fingers move with a certain grace
Fluid motion, an odd hold
It reminds me of him
His foot taps to a subtle beat
Quiet, soft, touching
It reminds me of him
His ears attract unusual sounds
Sounds that are unnoticed
It reminds me of him
His face shows no emotion and great emotion
Mixed like the world, colorful, unique, different
It reminds me of him
poems don't always have to rhyme.
