Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2014
Throw the wind this way.
Point one way with one hand,
and take mine with the other.

Bring me home to your mother.

I'll wear a dress,
But I confess,
the dirt on your face
makes me hate lace.

**I'm just itchin' to be free.
Bre Shaw
Written by
Bre Shaw  Chicago
(Chicago)   
537
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems