It happening again.
Words pass through me,
To turn into a poem.
Which is the bad news for myself
Cause I hate the poetry.
Hard breath.
I wanna try to start recover.
By making things that must be done.
The head is full of ideas.
I wanna throw them
with myself in that big blue window.
So they'll can reach the ground.
And finally
Are they may be still viable
and able to germinate?
Trough someone else's body and reality.
How poem begins?
© Copyright: Леонова Мария Андреевна, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125061005313
Свидетельство о публикации №125061005313
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