Her soul screams rainbow, but the words that take
Shelter under the roof of her mouth are
Part white, part Othello. I wish she could
Be herself… more yellow, like angels that
Drip kaleidoscopes over Italy’s
Stone white cathedrals. Her soul screams rainbow.
Her shoulders are crowned with the head of a
Tiger, yet she still loses sleep over
The opinions of sheep. She beams false glow,
And her thoughts grow like Venus fly traps on
The concrete. Her scars sit on a checkered
Floorboard of sporadic emotion, and
Her poetic pain paints grand pianos.
Know she not that heaven recites her soul?