Think of the stars
You may think of shimmering lights in the sky while I think of her.
In the darkest times she would give us light.
On the gloomiest nights she would be watching from afar only peeking out for a second to show she was there.
And when you needed her most, she would shine the brightest and lead you safety.

She had stopped crying.
All evening in her black-mesh coup de voodoo.
On the plane she had been crying
For her Summer pal. Yesterday she had been to market
Big brown bags and white bags, little pink bags filled with crimsony scents,
Capricornia, looseleaf newsprint, postcards, and colored pencils,
She had hands full of handles, bags bundled, stitched in strict Saturday fashion.
He could barely break a step, he could fake dance with her feet on his tip toes.
She was only three quarters the perfect size to fit inside his frame.
The grand disappearing act. And she was only ifs and suicides.
A stranded ray of sun-draped hair on a cooly porcelain forehead, the segments were all just wrong,
Something so wrong, trembling heart cries over a mute coo through a flattened tongue.
The sickle tongue, dodgy on Tuesday's, She had a simple mug, oh! But so cute and soothing, the nape
That wrapped around, my arm lapped its hands in a clapping ginormous duck's bill!
Lapping rhythmically. Thwack! Thwack!
Like no crying I had ever heard. Nor Earthen beauty I had never seen.
Her little lamb legs lumbered over, her awkward thinness and long limbs spilt on top of her,
Her tiny shoulders searching for support from her hips. White aurulent doll head on a stick,
She had sad defeated eyes, whimpering, pathetic,
Too small, and she shuttered and she shook,
And she shivered out every teardrop her body ever made. And she fell back on her bottom, and looked
Up as if to see a white steed standing with her guy striking a poised hand down to her,
He split down the middle, stammering, broken pieces of words crumbling out of his mouth
With eager intentions. He was too weak
To give her his feet, or pull her up in, he hadn't the gumption. He was fully occupied standing,
He wept too; then shuffled a little
Towards where she had fallen. He knew she wasn't right
She couldn't get the devil out of her piercing blue pupils, she couldn't
She lied.
Then she just piled on top of her knees and fumbled as if to rise like a demure lamb trying to rise off its Newborn legs, she just curled her legs,
So stiffly built, and narrow footed, built with such inequality to her siblings,
She got in the way of herself, a little lamb that could not manage.
Too whittled for him, he tried, he really tried, but three years had drained his strength, no real help.
When he sat her upright on her bottom, she opened her eyes, and for a moment smiled, grabbed for His hand but then after awhile she was lost, she lost interest, her pupils wandered.
He was orchestrating everything.
A real project, much more urgent and important. By nightfall she could not stand. It was not
That she couldn't smile or laugh or love, she was born
With everything but the will to live -
That cannot be destroyed, just like a love.
Melancholy was more important to her.
Life could not get her attention.
So she died, with her handles still in her hands, green grass stains her legs.
She did not survive another warm summer night.
And then he wept uncontrollably again.
"The wind is oceanic in the elms
And the blossom is all set."

2

The boy has come back
From the seashore, and atop the plateau.
The woes of women are like a genocide
In the morning, when the killing is over,
And the heat begins, and the bodies lie,
And stark life moves for its sobbing bones,
The curved women move with fire.
Father Father Father the girls
Are weeping, and crying and I cannot resist that gentle frailty
They are shucked in their skin suits rising from their soporific slumbers
In decadent leathers and frou frou dresses. They cling to bold faces,
Nothing can escape that cold crying of women weeping for their princes.
Blood-letting rage cannot overthrow the meadow from the pebble brook,
As a laden head bleats its tarnished tongue across a milky breast, it cannot
Escape the sounds of blue-stained teardrops cascading across the plains,
The sounds of woolbirds braying while their skins are sheared against the
Sluicing sound of water rushing through the flume.
All summer they have lamented, gorging on melancholy, tottering their cotton pyramid heads,
Shaking their cries in deliberation, bald skinny victim women screaming out!
Cotton-mouthed clams yaffing, hearts in panic, wholes of bodies clambering in a *** of woe.
They roost useless, pollard and wethered, jealous
Squinting out the last droplets of desperation from their eyes, screaming their mouths in awful
Togetherness, this cacophony of tortured tongue-song
They curdle the last notes of despair out under knotted breaths
With every inch of strength left inside them, they bray this way and that.
Their mothers scream out in wretched despair, ahhh!
On distant cliffs, on scrawny legs
Their stiff pain goes on and on in the September heat.
"Only slowly their hurt dies, cry by cry,"
Whipped bodies toting wergeld on a shore.

The Day She Died

Was the gloomiest day of the new century,
The first of calamitous, unfortunate autumns to come,
The first dying breath from piceous lungs.

That was yesterday. Early morning, soft rime droplets
Frosted to every blade of grass, not like any other
Earlier June day we've ever had. In the deep twilight
The syzygy announced the moon and demoted the sun.

The Earth-crisp frost nuzzled snow droplets.
Black bands of ravens whipping. Martens littering
Fresh kills of red-eyed rabbits on stark white stale
Summer lawns. A fox grayed, its cold bones
Mapped by ravaged feasts. A possum prowling
In a spot of tawny light.

The concrete spread into a maze
Of black veins ripening in the acute niello
Destitution of its widening cracks,

And when the summer left
It left without her. It will have to accept,
In the paley dim light of this vengeful wilderness -
She is gone.
But for now the warmth has not returned but a naked, half-pomegranate
Rotten moon for us two.
And a great vacancy in our memory.

Set fire to the Antique Shop,
We’re one step ahead of the cops.
Mannequins of Elvis begin to melt.
Free from past matters; free from guilt.
Promoting the prosperity
As we hoard hostility
Androids ambushing Arkansas,
They seek to find ménage trois.
Achieving self-awareness
They want fill the void’s emptiness
Chugging R & R by the fifths.
By our thumbnails we dangle off cliffs.
Thread by thread, the veil unfolds.
Standing all alone, I’m left in the cold.
Show me how much you care.
Push me in my wheelchair.
Listening to what drives you crazy
Eventually helps you stop being lazy.
Lilly is spinning me dizzy
She belongs to the world of yesterday
The haze is now fading away.
If only I could stay
for just one day
But Behold
I feel you should be told
I have come from the end
When the Earth is condemned.
As I tell the tall tale,
How we came to live in hell,
once we found the holy grail.
“We overcame our fear
The classified was made clear.
We launched all the nukes,
By order of the Skywalker named Luke.
The framers were lousy architects;
They left the balance completely hectic.
The CEO’s got away with fraud.
Thinking their work was the will of God.”
I met you in the gloomiest bar.
We speed across the town in my car.
Questioning why we remained silent.
The flickering florescent light compliment
The tone of shallow yellow paint,
I can finally hibernate.
After I left the oblivious,
Do I finally notice,
It’s hesitation that leads
me astray from redemption.
TJW 2013

our refined, synchronized
movements astounded
everybody, even the
gloomiest pessimists.

I am not a number.
I am more.
I'm a rhythm.
A clock, circadian,
A heart beat,
The music inside me.
I am a rhythm.

I am not a score.
I am more.
I'm a movement.
An individual, its
Like a non-religious transcendentalist,
A dancer, prancer,
An accidental fall.
I have a purpose.
I am a movement.

Who are you?
A number?
A score?
An A?
B?
C?
See?
Its not you, its how we were raised to be.

Thirteen years in a structured school
Teaching you only how to earn points
And memorize facts.

But I want to be smart.
An astrophysicist
An anthropologist
A pediatric psychologist

I want to own a home.
Lease a car.
Pay my bills.
Invest my money.

Where do I learn to do all that?

Look into your future,
Inside your dreams.
How do you get there?
How do you find
What seems
To be impossible?

Let me tell you,
Its possible.
Education
Filled with learning,
Filled with ACTUAL learning.
And motivation.
Its a structure,
But its home.
Its a routine,
Its a family.

Its in your head.
You create your setting.
The gloomiest day, with a smile on your face
And you've already become more.

When you want education,
You'll find it.
You'll find it with passionate teachers,
And summer camps,
And clubs
And sports
And, AP stats?

When you push yourself forward,
You'll feel pressure backwards,
But it won't drag you down,
If you don't let it.

It's a choice to make.
You'll be here anyways.

Its that day you walk across that stage
And find the smiles of your peers
And realize that although you're still here,
You're moving forward.

I know that I am more.
Than my 11th grade AP test score.
I know that I am more,
Than my homework,
Than my scars,
Than the number of marks
That are on my arms.
Than my rank,
My GPA,
Or any standardized test I took on a Saturday.
Than the number of hugs that I get when cry,
Or the number of graduates who will say good-bye.
Because at the end of the day
Or right here and right now
Or whatever cliche
I know I can say

I am more.

We stared at the ceiling, blackened
from the absence of light,
air chilling with every breath from the A.C.,
moving closer and closer
because we thought it was what we were supposed to do, but
our electrons were sending spark signals
before our bodies even thought about touching.

Like iron and sulfur, we synthesized
moving into each other's lives,
leaving our pieces behind,
swapping stories and secrets
in the cover of nightfall,
with roaring laughter,
our heads making permanent impressions
on their downy and memory foam petals
in the garden of wishes
we created.

And I followed you to your room,
and back again,
through the drug cartels of Mexico,
to the blizzards that lie beyond The Wall.
You, my greatest adventure
showed me what lay beyond the door
I was always too frightened to open.

You earned a doctorate in my mannerisms,
becoming an expert on each temper tantrum, each shining grin
that you always brought about
on the gloomiest of Wednesdays
when I ran out of milk for my cereal
and overcooked your mac and cheese.

You embraced every flaw I had,
came to love every scar I accumulated,
thirty-eight in total,
from the others,
almost too numerous to count on ten fingers,
that left me with a sewing needle,
and a bottle of Elmer's glue
each time.

And I thought I loved you then, but
not like I love you now, because
now I wake up next to you,
I make both of us coffee, and
push open the curtains
to let in sunlight. And I wake up next to you,
I don't hate Mondays as much anymore,
Because through the valleys of your sleeping lungs
I found where I belong.

What if I were to take my life?
To silence the cry of a heart that has been cleft asunder
And put to an end my nights of aimless wander
In search of solace I never attain.
If I were to take my life, it’ll be beneath the stormy rain
On the gloomiest evening.
The stars will be shrouded by dark clouds
And the ground quaking from the rumbling of thunder
As the relentless gust of wind whooshing by dangles the sturdy, tall trees
And fluttering its withered leaves.
An evening were every soul pusillanimously sought refuge under their roof
Frequently peeping through their curtain with a bulging eyeball
Because they feared to venture the cold, vacant street.
If I were to take my life, have I succumbed to deceit?
To the whisper of Lucifer that incessantly tells me “this is my solace”.
Indeed, I want to rest
But how restful will be my death?

What if I were to take my life?
And I’m laid in my coffin like an etherized patient by unfamiliar hands
My mother’s tears falling upon my lifeless body
And in the ***** of my brethren will be an overwhelming urge to cry but fury will not let them.
What awaits me after?
An abyss for taking a life I cannot create?
Peace? Because God is willing to empathize for I have been tormented enough in the earth he has kept me in.

My loneliness is all that I have ever known
And amidst all I called friends I felt alone
Amidst all my anguish my eyes never brought forth a tear
But I hoped to cry, because my brain couldn't bear.
What if I were to take my life?

you asked me to describe you,
and i found myself at a loss
for words
(which doesn’t happen very often;
words usually pour out of me
like water from a fountain).
you mean the entire ******* world to me,
how do i put that into words?
how do i put you into words?

you're the literal light of my life:
you’re a ray of sunshine,
a respite from the constant thunder and rain
that seems to follow me around no matter where i go.
you pour constant love and warmth into me,
so much so that
even on the gloomiest of days,
i feel happy and okay.

you’re my inspiration;
i look up to you in every possible way.
you make me want to be a better person,
show me what that could be like.

you are soft and gentle and kind.
you’re the feeling of coming home
of watching a movie under the blankets
with a cup of hot cocoa
of finding something that you thought you had lost,
and the relief because
you couldn’t imagine living
without something so amazing.
you’re the feeling of safety and security,
of knowing that everything’s going to be okay,
of opening a new book and becoming immersed
in an entirely new world, something you never could’ve dreamt up.

you’re the feeling i get when my favorite song comes on,
shouting the lyrics and knowing i’m off-key but not caring.

you remind me what it’s like to feel alive,
what it’s like to feel human
(and how can i put that into words?)

On a laughing spree
I endeavor with glee,
Ripped up shirt
Your short short skirt,
Appeals
To any penguin running from seals,
Clubbing
And tape side B dubbing,
Will deplete
Through wet concrete
The tempo
Of the gloomiest of death row
Inmate
That I can't relate,
Sedate the defense
With all but my pretense,
Dense and foggy
The towel is soggy,
Wet and damp
I've set up camp,
To see this to its end
Let's pretend,
You know what I'm thinking
Even if my signals aren't blinking...
© okpoet

She has long, chocolate colored hair.
She has eyes that twinkle in the sunlight.
She has a smile that can light up even the gloomiest of rooms.
She has a figure that any girl would dream of having.
She has a beautiful face; not a blemish on it.
She has a warm heart that could melt a blizzard.
She has a way with words that is moving.
She has a scent of genuine and purity.
She has a mind that envisions so much, she could make me look blind.

Once many months ago there was a lonely soul who needed a friend
Once many months ago you gave up the hope you would find someone who cared
Once many months ago you sought to end it all
And there she came. A girl with eyes as green as leaves on the summer trees.
A girl with the heart made of the purest gold
She was as sad as the gloomiest weather.
She too was in need, in need of a friend.
Soon the friendship was inevitable.
Late night conversations and so many secrets that were told.
She became your best friend, and you hers.
Soon she started throwing herself away and selling herself short.
And you....you were engulfed in another.
Soon your feelings were made clear, but she was stupid, thinking she didn't want a relationship.
Feeling hurt and jaded, you said things that wished you hadn't
But little did you know she missed you. She couldn't understand what she had did wrong.
Many weeks passed and fate would have it you came back into her life.
Bearing apologies, but she had already forgiven you.
And soon enough the friendship blossomed into something beautiful.



(In my blog this poem was called "The Story" but I don't think that title suits it. So here I'm going to leave it untitled)

My head is pouring the gloomiest smoke you have never seen
And I used to think that my life would end up unseen
Like a stone my heart is unbreakable
And to feel, I can no longer be able
These emotions are scratching my chest
Wanting to release themselves from the arrest
Sometimes I wish people would care about me

But sometimes I don't

I wish to tie my rope around the branches
And fall as the old leaves fall

I've already written the saddest verses.  
I have woven in letters the pain of the human experience,
the sorrow of the destitute,
the despot isolation of the elderly,
the impotence of the farmers whose land has been pilfered.    

Yes Neruda,
I've already written the gloomiest verses.  
My ink has voiced the disdain towards the indigenous people.  
How the innocence of our dear children has been embezzled.
How they have violated the existence of women,
and their body is the gold currency exchanged in human trafficking.  

I have written verses about the autocracy of democracy,
about black diaspora,
of hunger and greed,
and that which degenerates the Earth,
the perdition of human kind,
but of him...of him,
I have not been able to shape the verses that
can highlight the majesty that he is.    

I have written euphoric couplets,
sonnets of passion,
of unbridled desire,
yet,
there are no jingles to describe the verb in his kiss.

How do I write that there is divine healing in the warmth of his arms?
I don't know how to describe the synergistic links when our eyes are meet.    
I don't know how to tell him that I love him!
I don't know how to explain that my body still contours to the thought of his name!

There are no verses that describes the
sound my heart disembogued since he is not with me.  
I can define a star, infinity and the universe.  
I can impart on things I have yet to live,
I can even articulate the faith of the atheist...,
But the simplicity of his being,
I do not know how to profess it,
Nor can I transfer with eloquence.

I don't know how one speaks when one is mute.  
I don't know how the blind can experience the majesty of colors.
I might have written verses that enthused my brothers,
Yet, my hands, my heart and my ink
don't know how to describe the fundamental... his love!  
The verse that he left me,
the consonants and the alphabet of beautiful experiences
that eloquently wanted to construct the most beautiful poetry.  

But, it cannot  happen,
my word, my verse and vocabulary have left with him.  

Sir Neruda,
there is no saddest verse
than realizing…………
your love has left you.
*******************­********************­*********
Ya he escrito los versos más tristes.
he tejido en letras el dolor humano,
la dolencia del desamparado
del aislado anciano,
la impotencia del campesino al cual,
sus tierras le han robado.  

Si Neruda,
ya he escrito los versos más tristes.
ha estampado mi tinta la falta de respeto al pueblo indígena.
Como han robado la ingenuidad de la niñez querida,
como han violado la existencia de la mujer,
como su cuerpo es la moneda de oro intercambiada en la trata humana.

He escrito versos sobre la autocracia de los liberales,
la divagante diáspora del *****,
del hambre,
de la avaricia,
lo que degenera la tierra,
de todo lo que pierde a un ser humano,
pero a él…a él no he podido plasmarlo.

Si, ya he escrito coplas eufóricas,
trovas de la pasión, del deseo desbocado,
mas el verbo de sus labios
ese no sé cómo tramarlo.

¿Cómo escribir que en sus brazos hay sanación divina?
No sé cómo describir el enlace sinérgico cuando nuestras miradas se cruzan.  

No sé cómo decirle que ¡lo amo!
no sé cómo explicarle que ¡lo extraña mi cuerpo!
No hay verso que describa el sonido
que prorrumpe mi corazón desde que él no está conmigo.

Si, se hablar de estrellas, de infinidad y del universo.
Se narrar de lo que no he vivido,
incluso, puedo acertar en una rima la fe del ateo….,
más la simpleza de su ser no sé cómo profesarlo,
como transferirlo en palabras que tengan sentido,
no sé cómo se habla cuando uno está inmutado.
No sé cómo el ciego puede acertar la magia de colores.

Pueda ser que haya escrito versos que conmuevan a mis hermanos,
mas mis manos, mi corazón y mi tinta no saben
describir lo más básico…¡su amor!
El verso que me ha dejado,
las consonantes y el silabario
de bellas experiencias que elocuentemente
quisiera confabular en la prosa más bella.

Pero, ya no se puede,
es que mi verbo, mi verso y vocabulario
con él se lo ha llevado.

Don Neruda,
no hay verso más triste
que cuando tu corazón realiza
queamor de tu lado ha marchado.

LeydisProse
10/2/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/n

Too long,
Too long I point my vision
In awe towards the inexistent flaw
Embedded within the lustrous cracks of your smile
Splitting through the melancholy-infused,
My timeless sunless sky
I tremble,
More than just a sugar rush,
A heaven-sent electric current;
Starts the heart-shaped engine,
Rips through its tendons,
Accelerates, opposing the infirm currents ,
Of the impaired circuit,
Sensitizes it to a form of "life".
The thunder then pounds within the hollow,
Slowly devastates the shallow.
Bruises branch down my neck,
The bolts sink down to my deck,
Engraving everlasting fractal marks ,
Of fractions of whiles,
When I was stone-blind ,
Consumed by the euphoric rush,
Of your broken white lights,
Shocked into submission,
Getting used,
Falling for abuse.
Lightning was your name,
The thunder was your doomed game.
Maybe one end only surges in mortal power,
But the other has fallen, devoured.
Blind, but now I see coherently,
Rewired differently.
My fingertips still trace down the marks,
Till they have memorized their very whereabouts,
But now I embark,
On the journey of focus on my ever-present,
And your ever-absence.
Tainted with specks of your broken light,
My sky then gives birth to ravishing stars,
That decorate the gloomiest of inky skies.
Sometimes the stars fall,
To witness me wishing him away,
Closely hear me say,
The last of my goodbyes;
So long for now,
So long for then.

I've always been a night owl
Never really been a morning lark
The daytime just doesn't do it for me
The night on the other hand fills me with spark
My mind works better
My soul feels safer
All i need is a cup of tea,a good movie to watch
And a bag of vanilla flavoured wafer


When i look at the moon and stars in the night sky
It gives me a different kinda' high
The stillness and silence of the night
Just the moonlight to guide you
Man..it's so serene and haunting
Magical almost...
Looking at the post-midnight empty streets...
I'm sometimes reminded of the emptiness in my life
But then again even the darkest and gloomiest of night skies has at least that one star shining in it
So that does fill me with hope
May be not now
But somewhere in the future
This introvert soul might get someone to love
'Coz nobody wants to be lonely
And i ain't no exception

There’s no escape it’s ever the life’s part
Breaks one storm the strongest of men
Leaves on its trail pieces of broken heart
Scattered ashes of an undying pain!

Even the toughest falls like a house of cards
With no mend on sight for the brutally scathed soul
No peace to be got from the wisest of words
Charring helpless in grief’s burning coal!

Each breath exhales fumes of the despair
When we’re on the path of this gloomiest travel
That faith can’t heal nor bring to repair
As the mind is sunk in the darkest of hell!

There’s no relief when such times ravage us
For the tides of sorrow with years hardly wane
With time though quieted and within heart hushed
Remain its scars as the forever lasting pain!

Not depressed:
Emotionless
inside, I can feel the emptiness.
Can't love, can't hate
is this my fate?

Searching:
Listening to that sad song.
Watching that movie full of sorrow.
Reading the gloomiest book I could find.
Listening to people talk about their dark pasts.

Ahh~ here it comes
the one thing I can feel...
Finally depressed again,
finally I feel alive.

You were the sun this cold heart is longing. You told me I became the moon who lights up even your darkest and gloomiest night.

The gardens in my castle are filled with all kind of exotic flowers. The water from my fountains is purer than a new mountain snow. I am adored by all who know me and I can do no wrong. My touch can turned the gloomiest frown into a joyful smile. I know what each person needs and can give their wish with no effort at all. All of my foes succumb to my graces and refuse to fight. Such is the wonder of the imagined life.

Sometimes you dnt know what you are speaking, ur mind is floating in abyss and ur words somewhere else, u assure people of their sadness will go by, and meanwhile u ******* in the gloomiest of alls in you.

Flattering from here to there, a wind carrying the sounds of chyme go through as swift as minglenesa happens in dreams un- consciously. U try to grab words to pen down, and they very accurately ditch you on your face. This is how life is!!

I might sound melancholic and depressed 33 aged woman , but remember you all happy young lads, sadness is what residing in all of us very deep. Again and again you go back towards it just to taste its divinity and check its temperature. If you feel she is alone and needa ur company u sit with her, drink beer or sip whiskey , hold her vividly just to make sure she stays in darkest deepest hole of you as you are very much aware that too much happiness will make your mouth bitter and to sweeten it you will for sure come back to sadness!!!

Holiness is such a revealation that falls on you like sprinkle of drizzle in time of full blown sun, very unexpectedly. Bereavee it, engulf it, hold it for that moment of brief can outshine you.

I carry a demon on my back named Anxiety. He whispers whenever I feel serenity and shouts when hell breaks loose in my world. He gnaws on my flesh and devours my bones; his viscous fangs are my gloomiest thoughts. I stare at the four walls in my room to forget my injuries, but I am still bleeding.

And even if an entire crowd were to witness me and worship me, they wouldn't catch a glimpse of him as he bends and breaks my will to his twisted ways. No one will be my shield; no one will be my spear. I shiver and shudder but it never meets their eyes.

I am battered, broken, and breathless, as his army marches down the ruins of my haven. I hide it all underneath a composed demeanor, but it's just a farce on the verge of falling.

Sleep is my only escape, but even then he lingers in the darkest corners of my neurons. I am smothered by his hands, till my day and face turn blue, and I try to cry out but it's just me and the same four walls.

O light-ful  origin of communication,
please let me know your self-adjusting joy
because I don’t want to forsake this
hope that holds my indomitable
spirit and life together.

I wish to sing imperviously to all the odds!

O Radha-kanta!
You are so faithful!
Please help me to
remain very close to you...
Save me from the beseeching calls of
a gloomiest empire. It is always ready
to enmesh me into its disheartenment.

O Gopika-kanta!
Be the lover inside me and
in the love form too...
You are the enchanter!
When you keep me safe inside your heart, I feel that
I can always be a daring brave soul!
©️shivpoetesspriya

She's like Hypnotic Poison,
A bittersweet juicy fruit,
But fallen far from the rotten tree,
Her kiss like belladonna,
The beautiful flower also known as Deadly nightshade,
It all depends on how you approach her,
A sour patch kid,
she can be sweet but then she's sour,
She throws hands like an older brother,
But she can be loving like a mother,
Her love is like a gamble,
It all depends on the deck you handle,
To those fortunate enough to know her...  She's a bubbly comforting ray of sunshine on the gloomiest of days,
Although she's stained with pain,
It's beautiful to see,
It makes you feel like your not stained by life and misery,
Sometimes you'll miss her sorrow,
It lets you know SHES REAL,
She wears the stain of life so well,
As if parading the latest trend,
She makes a mockery of all her pain,
like she never felt the sting of it,
He says she smells like a smoke machine,
I guess the compliment is fitting,
She clouds the mind then dissapates,
As easily as she came,
She's open yet her walls are high,
Puts the wall of china to shame,
She only brings her walls down,
If you stop trying to climb them,
She's sickly sweet like ******,
Addicting, she feels good but you know you can't control her,
She swallows your soul whole,
she draws out your darkest secrets,
Romanticizing all of it,
She smells like a Halloween smoke machine,
Smoke and mirrors,
A tantalizing scene,
She drinks like she's about to swallow an entire ocean,
Inhales cigarettes and *** like it gives her air to breath,
She covers up the smell of disdain,
But she's still a smoke machine,
And everyone calls her Savage but her name is PRIMA JEAN