Poetry

Red, I bleed red. The red of nostalgia.


Old wounds may not bleed,
But poke them if you dare.
I’ll open up old diaries,
And tell you tales, laying my soul bare.

Stories, laughs & tears we’ll trade,
You may say less, let me say more.
Then you’ll see memories flying in through the window,
And nostalgia bravely walking through the door.

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2 thoughts on “Red, I bleed red. The red of nostalgia.

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