Matthew English (4/2/1995 / Kent; The Garden of England)
I write, but what does it mean that
I write? Blot the page with feelings,
True or untrue.
You may ask of what purpose these
Writings hold. Love, hate or pride?
Though I find the same questions
Being asked by oneself.
Love like roses,
Deep red, heart filled passion.
Or hate, like a black oblivion,
Endlessly close to ones heart.
Your face, glistening like a pool,
Pool of clear water,
Like a stream,
Or rapids flowing in my mind.
I hasten to speak, or
Not to speak. For fear of life,
Or a life of fear itself.
My hand. Our hands.
Softly touching or not touching at all.
Like our eyes as you fade away
In and out of thought.
Again you may question what it is
To write. What I mean by these words.
Perhaps I do write of love.
Though what can be made sure
Is my passion for writing
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