The look on her face devastates me.
Sadness, remorse, naiveté.
Oh, the visible pain in one look of her chestnut eyes.
A reoccurring course of events.
Extended yells, objects thrown, trails of tears falling.
Pleading, “he was my first love, naiveté.”
Blastoff, a flood of happiness, ending someone unknown.
With a soft, despondent tone, she revokes the past experiences.
Theatrically portraying endured events.
Rushing through the darkness, yearning for a way out.
Questioning her former self, outright naiveté.
She sighs, “I was dancing with the devil in disguise.”
fromthehartman 