They went home and told their wives,
that never once in all their lives,
had they known a girl like me,
But… They went home.
They said my house was licking clean,
no word I spoke was ever mean,
I had an air of mystery,
But… They went home.
My praises were on all men’s lips,
they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
they’d spend one night, or two or three.
But…
Are you guys as obsessed with dating a writer as I am? Or would you guys rather not date a writer?
not all poetry is written
nor does every poet write,
my lover is a poet who
turns skin to parchment,
and composes sonnets
in the night.
I don’t have a place to call home.
All I have are vacant promises
Waiting to be filled.
I cleave on to your arms
But you push, pull me away
my nails dig into your bark
And leave scratches of, “Mineydis was here.”
Can I climb on your trunk
and dwell amongst your leaves?
I just want a place to call home.
I want to take hold of one of your limbs
Chop it up, blend it
Fabricate it into a sheet of paper where I can tatto my words for you on it.
I need a place to call home.
Spare me a limb of your branches.
She swiftly sifts through the fields of sunflowers and dandelions, she’s on the search for the one she desires. She is a flower child, to say the least. She seeks to recuperate from society’s afflicting words, that over the years became deep wounds. She’s kept herself together over the years with…
