andrea miles

My Best Poem

Is disconsolate in her dishevel
A void is her emotion
A beckoning is her need
She is quite alluring with her devious disease
With her clammy hands she holds on with a tight clamp
With the world in which she does cease
Her nails dig in fully into the depths of our hearts
She is loveless in her own disarray
A lack of all emotion although her laughter still does stay

[Report Error]