This thing will just pass down the lineage, if they all have to be remembered...perhaps by the fig tree planted by her forefathers, silently peeping through the window as they drink and go, one by one.
"To vanilla with love"
It's two o'clock in the morning on April 12th, 1912, and I am about to die.
The temperature is two degrees below zero centigrade. Everything within one hundred meters of us is ice. Even my thoughts seem to have frozen....
"Cherry lips for his creamy heart"
this is my first published work here. So quite nervous about it . it's something I wrote whilst waiting for my mum I' the mall
Just another mediocre poem I made.