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I don't wish to see through my eyes,
darkness envelopes every-where,
cities keep building high towers,
building over the parks and flowers,

I can't wish to see your gentle hands,
they bury me quicker than quick sand,
your face lit upon impressions of the land,
You were an Angel wearing gift of hand band

Sweeter than fairy floss and paint's gloss,
I speak to my mirror image since your loss,
If I had wings, I could fly to a gentle spring,
and wish for sparkling diamond for your ring.
This one is a girl I had flings when I was 20 . She was 17 and literally a work of art, beauty coming alive.
Whispering sweet desires in tearing
giggling, we forget of we're laughing
tummy sweet button does taste so yummy,
How do these moments lead right up to now?

Tasting your lips, something ever lasting,
treats of your seduction to say the least,
fingers wander to love songs from singers
blasts from window won't shiver how heat lasts,

Lust come from sweetness and not the dry crust,
wetness from your lips, absolute sweetness,
Eye sweet locked with mine, until day I die,
dancing to the beat of serenity

Ghostly are these, where  times were costly,
Precious was the girl, precociously
Another flame from my 20s. Lost touch when she went to uni. We were both about the same age. Having a photographic memory can be a good thing and a bad thing.
witch 8h
pearls were ****** like her ruby dagger,
ruby dagger, wears on her belt; dropping venom.
spreading fatal flames with her burning lipstick,
made by the poison of her ruby eyed bloodthirsty serpent.

she knows revenge.

vicious storms brought she,
to a land, oh never was free.
trouble is a woman in need.
needing to see pearls bleed.
Leya 12h
___________    
She ponders as she lies on the bed of roses,
The thorns biting through her skin,
Pellucid elsewhere, but the stem,
Surrounding her, engulfing memory.
How did she get there? She does not know,
For this is all she feared.

The bear on her chest leaves her to wonder:
the caged giant now takes pity,
As it roams the lengths and strides its pen
Afraid it is of the petite beings,
And afraid it is of the fiery flash it brings.
Distorted creatures, partly seen through the iron rings.

Does the beast ever pray to be elsewhere?
She ponders as the trembling devours her.
The puny-beast is now the prey,
Behind the iron, it is caged.
What is the difference, she wonders, as one twins with the other.
At this breath she figures out the answer that wages war against eachother.
Both the maiden and the beast would choose the bear.
The irony of it—now she is aware.
Rules of mankind she is reminded of:
If a bear scares you, contain it.
If she swirls your lust, cover it.
Yet you cannot sustain—act on it.

As the cotton turns scarlet,
The world now turns aware.
But it’s not the bear she fears.
It is the cold-eyes that judges.
As they still question the lass—
That lies motionless as the wounds tear.
"The bruin earned it!" accuses the chap.
"It is cause of what she wears."
She ponders as the coldness embraces,
She lies as she sheds ruby crystals,
Eyes turning hazy, feeling dazed,
Losing feelings elsewhere,
The only thing shading this pain
is the sorrow-night’s weep ablaze.
As she reaches the gate that awaits.

As two ends near-
Them and you,
These biased questions may ascend:
How old were they? What did she wear?
How did they look like? Was she rare?
But dare a man ask another,
Why did you do this?
Was it ever fair?
here's a hug if u relate
Am I suffering beautifully?
Do I wear my agony like a crown?
Adorn it with pearls and jewels,
And parade it into town?

Is my pain reasonable enough?
Do I raise it up or tone it down?
I’ll try to cry pretty, tiny tears,
In fact, I'd do it in my gown!

For even in despair, I should be desirable,
Dare not to be emotional, dare not to make a sound.
To be a woman is to bleed, but glamorously.
There shall be glitters in the meltdown.
A poem about how society expects women’s agony to be palatable.
I think I had a thought once,
not sure where it went

I think I had a choice,
before their automatic consent

I think I had a body,
until it was covered under a glass ceiling of intersectionality,
disguised as empowerment & healing

I think I had ambitions,
but I wasn't allowed to share them f r e e l y

I think I had a story,
which included originality, not mass produced 'bots

I think I think a lot,
it's okay though, only when it helps with the plot

I think I had a life,
built on standards of equality, for all to prevail

I think I was The Foreman,
who settled on being the female
thoughts from a feminine point of view
your girl b Mar 19
I met a woman who wiped my tears
Who listened to my traumas from the past years
She never judged, she stayed calm in my storms
So much so that it never dawned on me that she was worn
From all the hate I spilled making messes left and right
Burning bridges and reacting out of spite
She held on she was tough
But her future holds the light
Therefore she had to leave
She could not stay
I begged and begged and reminded her promise to be here when our hair turned grey
I have never known a love like hers
A woman who puts others before her
That's where I want to stay
That's where I'll spend my nights
I will have to change if I want a spot in her light
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