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|| A Poem for you || If you would ever ask me to

|| A Poem for you || If you would ever ask me to write a poem for you, Disbelief would become my roommate for a year. I would summon ink in my body to flow through me. It would then penetrate my moist fingertips and get spilt on an old, dusty, crumbled and tattered piece of paper; the six strings of my heart would strum symphonies that paint your face on my canvas, and I would laugh a little joy, cry a little pain. But in the end, I would smile. The white vinegar of our memories would clear the rust from my iron heart, and my lost emotions would return home again to my pen. **FULL PIECE IN THE CAPTION** || A Poem for you || If you would ever ask me to write a poem for you, Disbelief would become my roommate for a year. I would summon ink in my body to flow through me. It would then penetrate my moist fingertips and get spilt on an old, dusty, crumbled and tattered piece of paper; the six strings of my heart would strum symphonies that paint your face on my
|| A Poem for you || If you would ever ask me to write a poem for you, Disbelief would become my roommate for a year. I would summon ink in my body to flow through me. It would then penetrate my moist fingertips and get spilt on an old, dusty, crumbled and tattered piece of paper; the six strings of my heart would strum symphonies that paint your face on my canvas, and I would laugh a little joy, cry a little pain. But in the end, I would smile. The white vinegar of our memories would clear the rust from my iron heart, and my lost emotions would return home again to my pen. **FULL PIECE IN THE CAPTION** || A Poem for you || If you would ever ask me to write a poem for you, Disbelief would become my roommate for a year. I would summon ink in my body to flow through me. It would then penetrate my moist fingertips and get spilt on an old, dusty, crumbled and tattered piece of paper; the six strings of my heart would strum symphonies that paint your face on my
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The Incomplete Metaphor

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