I am the poet who cries
herself to sleep
and with each tearful word
that make the sentences stream
these pages pour as the cold steady rain
the kind that makes you want
to stay in when its looking this way
Long nights just to dream
theres a muddy field
where a garden was
and he was there but
i could not read his tongue
though i got away
he screamed,
I'm stuck out here
my clothes are soaking wet
from somebodys tears
I was asleep in his bed
and as he was leaving, i woke up and said
i dreamt you were carried away
as my tears turned to waves
baby, dont go away
come here
heart to ananda
Enecko · Mon Aug 28, 2006 @ 02:04am · 3 Comments
