My Best Friend
Who will believe the poetic stories
Of your life, when its calmness comes?
When the threesome's in our talk's
Jump out of airplanes in a drunken stupor?
You will be but a pencil, for others
To ponder why they can't read.
Yet, your life was untrimmed
By the heinous eyes of failure.
You created a heaven,
An ornament for me
To fondly recall, anytime
The pressure seems rehearsed.
Copyright © Ferris Jones | Year Posted 2019
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