Poetry

Your fashion isnt being held as passion like you demand.
Your tears are being mistaken.
Classified as a minor issue,
you burst into disappointment.
Your missery craddles you into a cacoon of shadows,
helping the darkness whisper black secrets,
helping the darkness cover your sight,
to the point you only see rage in pure vision.
The fire trapped in your heart isnt there for evil,
You can mold that into a flame that burns your bad memories.
...You used to lean forward and let drips of your heart,
dazzle the terrain underneathe,
your heart of flames,
would be used like a sprinkler,
sneezing ember all over the place.
But the drops of the fire heart in your chest,
can be molded to a flame,
that can burn your bad memories!