He knows of the pain he brings,
He knows not how its done.
Its a natural sentiment,
Built on false conviction.
A look that steals breath,
And a sense of slipping inhibition.
Blue eyes behind blood lenses,
Brought hearts to their knees.
He touches without contact,
They claim it to be too much.
At no point is he affected,
He burns purity like a cigarette.
The true definition,
Of a man that feels nothing.
He will never know what it is like,
To feel a permanent embrace.
He does not care.
He is happy.
-Atlantic
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Author:
Atlantic (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 4th, 2016 02:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 36
Offline)
Comments2
The flow was actually pretty good, despite there being no rhyme scheme. I enjoyed the poem from beginning to end. Good write.
He burns purity like a cigarette - I love it!
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