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Misty Meadows
Poems
Aug 2015
Grilled Apricots
My lips, pink and petite,
Always falling short of love.
Most usually, burning against a
Flesh
Holding more toxins than my
Lungs find throughout the night.
And this tongue,
Trails deep within forbidden
Valleys,
Seeping moisture to the greatest
Of mistakes.
My pulse finds a way to give my
Hips a rhythm
To the symphonies of seduction.
Ballads of bed sheets.
I try to breeze through temptation,
Even in the cities of lust.
My mind lacks discretion
As I grip this desire...
Written by
Misty Meadows
21/F/Pennsylvania
(21/F/Pennsylvania)
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