Agony

.

There is this boy I like

Back home, in the country,

He is somewhat alike

A strong ancient oak tree:

So calm and collected

Yet fiery with passion,

His hair strangely ashen,

His smile long perfected.

I have sadly not seen

The object of my thoughts

For years but I have been

Since for him having hots.

I paint him in my sleep,

Sometimes his absence weep,

Has he wished my return

For as long, does he yearn?

Doubt is starting to grow

In my heart, somber throe,

But I cannot back out

Now it is far to late,

As I near the old gate

I must remain devout.

.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s