She was fed by the cold winter
Embraced by the solemnity of Christmas
Held high praises for few coins;
Love is an art and she's an empty canvass.
Virile man in between her surge warmth
First love, first apprehension
She was a sophomore at hurt
Tears wont last at eyes, although she cried.
Lips with wounds, sinewy expectations
Stars may vary and bring misfortune
She carried them all, pulled the shroud
And dreamt of sailing to the moon
Euphoria filled her empty stomach
She accepts men with sheer delight
For they bring fortunes in her pocket, her body-
She sell, they savour with relish at night.
Father, mother, brother, and sister
She no longer quenches hurt with love
She wrote; loitering on her desk
She gained prowess from prosperous letters
She writes at a blank world, but pretentious
Papers-- she tends to write for the world
Wishes to impress it by her perplexed concepts
Of love and hurt, For it to give her more.
She deserved more.
S t i. t c h
