xX.A.Poem.Of.Words.Xx
I type a word that runs like a torrent,
Falling.
It's my hands that create the lies.
My fingers scribbling for a purpose.
False, to only emblazon the truth.
The broken ones in their fifth...
War.
A beating heart that laments.
The angel.
Male, rebelled, proud.
A better son of a beaten father.
Lying with a thought that trickles,
Like water, through a parched mind.
Words are always false,
A truth cannot be written.
Lines on a paper aren't a feeling,
That is us, the humans.
I promise.
The End
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
xX.A.Poem.Of.Words.Xx, which
was posted on Mar 21, 2011 by
CurasiTayo.
This is a solo poem.
About this poem
"I type a word that runs like a torrent,
Falling."
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