I know we don’t talk much,
empty is the space where hope was,
vacant is the room. To think,
the sad flowerpot, so well nurtured,
has now been blown over; cracked.
Its soil scattered all over the ground.
(House: noun, used for the soil
we’re lent. Granted a freehold over,
whatever, it’s all the same. See bleak.)
If you ever need me, shout:
and I will jump the terraced fences,
run over these littered streets few
and far between; don’t keep it
in your shoebox, tell me. All I have
is our tattoo of the phoenix.
Our Phoenix Tattoo
By Ryan Havers(via ryanhavers)
me trying to make a successful text post