You dive, like oil on water, skimming.
My love, for you, it clings— down drowning.
Leave to you to understand it.
And no, I don’t connect to this ‘poem’, poem?
I was writing this for a friend’s musical composition but he found that it didn’t fit!
Ah well, hoho.
I think I can write poems (again), they’ll sound way better than the ones I wrote about a year ago, but I’m definitely not writing poems that bear my heart or soul or you know, something melodramatic.
If I were to, it equates to prying open a chest to find nothing.
Love is redundant.
But I do not mean that we shouldn’t do redundant things.