being gorgeous
is all a game of
projections and
precision, with a
drop or two of
luck in the gene pool
do you know
how many times
i have stood, ****
in front of a man
and heard
those words
drip, slippery with
*** and saliva,
through foaming lips?
big headed beasts
who still haven't
figured out where
to find my ****
oh, but desire me, they do
and i'm always the best
****
they've ever known
'oh baby, how DO you DO
that thing with your hips?'
i lay around wondering
why these men
subject themselves
to *******
dead fish
when it's over they
can't keep fingers
from lingering on my
skin, tattooed ribs
draw out long sighs
and desperate whispers,
followed by lingering
on my
'perfect tits'
then it comes, oh,
how god ****
gorgeous i am,
with my eyes that
just can't decide
if they want to be
the bark or the leaves
intrigued by my
beguiling mystique
and desire to be free,
but the sad truth is,
fools or not,
each and every one
does the same thing,
they leave
should've listened
when dad said,
'get compliments
for being smart,
not pretty'