Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
It's funny how
lack of sleep will hit you.
It's six in the morning,
and I,
I'll tear up at almost anything now.
All sense of sanity
hindered by delirium
but I think of you.
Maybe I'm insane,
maybe I'm delusional,
but at six in the morning,
I still love you.
She was a Black Rose.
A beautiful rarity,
and the essence of despair,
all at once.
Next page