"prepubescent" poems
"Remember in summer when we used to listen to the smiths and make out in that little hidden park?" He said with a little smirk.
"Tragically, yes." She didn't even look at him. She didn't laugh with him. She didn't smirk back. She looked ahead, stared at the open road, like it was a possible escape plan.
"I miss you." He didn't think. Its funny, the things you regret immediately, the things you regret as they're happening.
"No, you don't." The same monotone voice.
"Why cant we get over this?" Hes not angry, or pleading, or sad. Hes just asking. He doesn't expect an answer.
"Because I hate you." She said. This time she looked away from the road, she looked at him, dead in the eye. Her eyes were welled with tears, they did not steam down her face or smear her make up, they were just there. Like they weren't for anyone but her. And he didn't want to take that away from her.
"You're my best friend."
"I don't care. I hate you, with every fiber of my being, I hate you. I hate you like the sun hates the moon, I hate you." She said it matter of factly, trying to be hurtful. She didn't want him to think she was weak. That she would just give up on this.
"I cant loose you." His voice broke half way though, snapped under the pressure, hiccuped like a prepubescent boy talking to his crush.
She turned to him, lent forward and whispered in his ear.
"Too late." She turned on the ***** of her feet and melted away into the cool winters day, like she used to on those summer ones, where they would listen to the smiths, in that little hidden field, and make out. When they were best friends. When they both knew they could never be just best friends. When they both tasted like the american dream and homemade cooking. When the sun loved the moon.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
Prepubescent voices
crawl back and forth
A squeaking, scratching chorus of topics
unbeknownst to the speaker
Meaningless sounds produced just to be heard
Drowned out by the unfortunately undeafening silence
of headphones plugged into nothing
Misdirected words, hidden insults, skewed meanings
Subtle bullying pretends to be older and wiser
when it is terrified of new things
Gay, **** emo, **** laughter
Because the body is hilarious
Crowded faces: authority is buried under the splotchy noise
Enter swear here _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
Because ****** is an address
And “You have no friends” is just kidding
“Go **** yourself” is love
Outward rudeness to the man who puts himself though it daily
An example for the even less learned
7-year-old cursing
Because ******* means nothing to them
or anyone else.
Sit down because there are seats
Look in my eyes, taken back immediately
stupidity realized in a golden split second of mortification
Split second passes now with more phantom confidence
One by one skip, saunter, slither down three steps
Yellow noise recedes not fast enough
Obnoxious created by too much television
And its weird to be gay, and gay to be weird
Unacceptable open windows to normality
Jack my swag
Kindly,
Will you please shut the f* * * up.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
Above the wind plains roaring white
With lightning crack's climaxing light
In the prepubescent gloom
Of fear, excitement, unrealized doom
The moon appears in cloudy skies
With blissful sighs as knowledge dies
****** grasses ripped from home
As breeze embraces seed and blows
To new beginnings and new ends
Where e'er the Fates may deign to send
A rose's bud seeps from below
Mixed with sticking undertones
When innocence concedes the stage
To reside in maturation's cage
And foolish fancy takes to flight
The sun forever fades to night
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.
To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.
Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.
You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.
So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?
1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.
2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.
3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.
4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.
5) Eat all the free food you can.
With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.
Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.
Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******** in your own pants.
This…
Is only temporary.
You must say.
A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.
This is only temporary.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
It was in wander
for not lost was she.
It was in wonder
for without sin
she walked towards
the tree bearing
sweet fruit
enticing her forward
lust sent a lumber puncture
through her spine
upwards it shot to the
brain; cerebral forms
into a beating heart.
It excited her there was
such freedom found
in such innocence.
Pulsating quivers she waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest
hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton hand sewn dress
virginal white
no womanhood in sight
Annabelle’s life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic raspers
from asylums, former patients
of Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; only misery
innocent running’s from
grave dangers of
stark raving madness.
For, today
she wasn’t embroiled
as Arden’s pet
instead she was the little girl
so born to be before the woman
was stolen, bound by
a physicians sick
nightmarish re-enactments.
For, today
she was free
a starling, passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
Dream is but a life,
Severed from congruence and chronology.
Did I imagine my memory?
The adolescent blizzard,
The tar pits of first love,
The prepubescent honeycomb,
The shedding of innocent skin,
The infant cobweb spun by genetics.
Death at the leg of my mate,
Birth among a thousand siblings.
Climbing to the ground
From the sky where i was buried,
Resting in rapid eye ether,
Transparent atmospheres solidify
With ruby whips of gravity.
My reflection in your fingernails,
My face askew in distortion,
Your hand's a house of mirrors,
Peeling at my silhouette.
I'm drinking fire,
As we cremate the sea.
Nirvana becomes panoramic,
The air ripples.
The topaz pillar i held becomes my body pillow,
And I wipe the sleep from my eye.
The dream unstitched,
We sew reality back up,
But the thread gets thin
At night.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
She loved him,
They were young and stupid,
She was sad, he was happy,
Their relationship moved too quickly,
Although young they indulged in intimate love.
She loved him,
They were young and stupid
She was sad, he was happy,
He was busy being a child, this upset her,
She hurt herself and blamed it on him.
She thought she loved him,
But they were young and stupid,
He was tired and hurting,
He asked to confide in a childhood, female, friend.
It was not taken well.
She loved him,
But she was too young to understand,
There was no reply for 37 minutes,
She facetimed him in tears,
She reversed the camera to show what she had done,
Crimson blood ran down her arms,
It dripped down, corrupting the beige carpet,
Tears fell alongside the dark drops,
Her mum entered. The call ended.
She loved him,
2 hrs later he thought he’d killed her,
He broke up his ****** prepubescent razor,
Without a second thought he dug it into his leg.
Crimson blood ran down his leg,
It dripped down, corrupting the beige carpet,
Tears fell alongside the dark drops,
But no one entered, no one to help him.
She loved him,
She got stitched up and it became like it never happened.
He loved her,
He was left scarred and that image of her wrists never left him.
4 years later he sat in his room,
Alone,
He wrote a piece of text.
This Isn’t a Poem. Its My Life.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Where are
The ecstatic saxophones that
Slung forth swank slurs of
Beauty,
The *** *** ***
Bass lines,
The snaps and snares and the
Sweet rhythm of the Night?
Music had character
And minds followed, in following
Soared.
There were no glittery vampires,
No prepubescent
Brother boy bands.
Soulful crooners never
Warbled over Alejandro,
Or the boots with the fur, with the fur.
We wrote letters and shared thoughts and ideas
And convictions.
There was no need for the techno
Middleman
To wrap our
Real thoughts in LOLs
To make opening
Up to another
More efficient.
Mass media
Gluttony drowns
America till I strain and struggle
Only to barely stay afloat
In this sea of apathy.
But you won't buy and sell my soul.
I'm not going to
Be your
Consumptive,
Quiet,
Couldn't-care-less,
I won't get in the way,
And I won't raise my voice,
Good American,
2.5 children,
Christian,
Conserva-libera-publi-crat,
Self-centered, Illiterate, Ignorant
Sheep
Only to follow the power.
**** no,
I'm mad as hell;
I want to leave the next generation
A world where
You can confess your
Love and be a man or
Love another man and have
Basic human rights, and it all
Starts in your
Mind
And your
Expression thereof.
It's the saccharine pop
Culture that has
Made free-thought unfashionable, a crime.
Art is
Revolution.
Hang
Up,
Log
Out,
Unplug and just look
At what you've let the
World become in
Letting yourself be
Little more than
A faceless source
Of merciless dollars.
Wrest free our
Culture from the
Calamitous and indifferent
Claws of rampant capitalism.
Express yourself or submit,
Stand up for a free America.
I will not be sold.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
*****
Twirling like the devil's baton
a cyclic cul de sac
'round the positronic menagerie,
speared from stem to stern, floor to ceiling,
arched bowed bent backs saddled ridden tools
adolescent ne'er-do-wells and prepubescent fools
all desiring to sit nowhere but by me,
by me, by me-
My friend of cosmic dawn, take my hand and
traipse like a runner in a blind alley.
Lead me to my quiet stead, walk and stamp about,
my cloven-hoofed associate, sarcastically devout,
and show me that everything in this whole world
is presented via legerdemain, deceitful cleverness,
but it cannot cure my lightheadedness, felt by me,
by me, by me...
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
Boy is born
Boy is made of silk gentle to the world
never crossing lines prepubescent pearl
Boy grows into man
Man is made of steel callous iron ore
huffing cans of power behind a wall of war
Man grows old
Old is made of scars topography of time
shedding timeless wisdom in arthritic pantomime
Old succumbs to death
Death is made of nothing heaven, hell nor rot
just floats their like an atom or something you forgot......
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 6:39 PM UTC
People wonder why I'm Angry!
You should have heard what they'd call me,
They might as well have put me into slavery!
Just an adolescent, being outcast and rejected!
I love my Momma, it isn't her fault, but I was Neglected!
Now people wonder why I'm like me, So crazy!
It's their fault, they made me, they shaped me!
What'd they expect from their impunity, their impropieties?
That I'd grow up, to become another rodent for society?
I was a child! A YOUNG KID!
They expected me to be content, they NEVER even apologized for what they did!!!
Grrrr, They called me 'A little monster', Now I'm full of RAGE!
Well, what'd they expect?
THEY CONDEMNED A PREPUBESCENT KID TO A CAGE!!!
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 PM UTC
Emotional regression
I’m curled in a ball
Eyes bloodshot and sight blurred from tears
Flashbacks of the middle school pains bubble up inside me
I swallow hard
Push down the memories and the taste of bile
I’m not a prepubescent thirteen year old
Those days are far-gone
I’m strong and independent
Yet somehow you shake me
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
when i found out you were going to be a father,
everything inside me went flat and grey and
i spent the next five minutes remembering how to breathe.
it shouldn't have surprised me,
but i guess something in me just hoped
that no one would ever choose to procreate with you.
lord knows i wouldn't even trust you with a cat.
when i found out you were going to be a father,
some dark heavy seed plunked into my chest
and sank straight to the bottom.
i saw the announcement and immediately
i could taste in the back of my throat
the way you called me baby,
acidic and cloying and sticky.
it burned hot and sharp through my lungs
like every word of every promise i remember you forgetting.
the news hit me with a power you yourself have not had in years.
you are going to be a father,
and since the moment i found out,
i have been whispering desperate prayers to the universe
that you never have a little girl.
i think about your greedy hands brushing curls
from some soft little angel face,
and i feel sick.
i think about you picking up her pretty little-girl things,
little socks and bows and shoes and toys,
and it takes everything in me just to sit here and breathe.
will you sing her the songs i used to sing you
in my own pretty little-girl voice?
will you hear me in her cheeky turns of phrase
or when she cries into her pillow
late at night when she thinks you're asleep?
what if she's precocious,
like me?
what if her prepubescent body starts to carve itself
into the shape of a woman's?
will it be easier to remember that a child is still a child
when you watched her grow yourself?
if she picks out tight shirts and short skirts
and paints her eyes dark and her lips red,
and she walks and talks and moves like a woman,
will you remember that she is not?
maybe if she is your daughter,
it will be different,
but then again i think being your anything
can never be anything but trouble for a little girl.
i should know.
i hope more than anything that you never have a daughter,
because i know if you do,
i will never stop wondering.
i know that the questions will keep me awake at night
for the rest of my life.
i will will never stop worrying that it is
at least a little bit
my fault.
when i found out you were going to be a father,
i remembered
everything.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
Setting:
One bedroom apartment, run down
Hasn't been cleaned for months
Leaning back on a three legged couch
Chain smoking at 7PM with the sun setting
Through the black out curtains pinned to the wall
With some edgy alt-pop ******** on shuffle.
Dagger in hand questioning what is real and what is fake.
What makes a person? Their name? Their past, their presence?
Who will I be known as when I pass
Will they mourn the sulking writer who drank and smoked her life away?
Will they lay to rest the prepubescent drama queen and avid book enthusiast?
Or will they bury the dreams of this girl possibly pulling herself together to make something great.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
I am from nothing.
From privilege thoughts
and poor choices.
I am from rumpled
school uniforms
and skinned knees.
From the stinging
taste of red clay
to the black and
blue sleeves of
prepubescent rage.
I am from
giant dogwoods
whose long-
reaching branches
scrapped against
that endless,
black celling.
The forever
nights, holding
on to Dogwood
limbs. Eyes un-
blinking. Starring
into the abyss
of creation.
From
Cap’n Crunch
and chocolate
milk to black
coffee and cigarettes.
I am from
absent brothers
and forgetful
fathers.
I am from
awkward crushes
to adolescent
wet-dreams of
the budding
tulips walking
down our halls.
From the
class clowns
to the wall-
flowers.
From the
fuck-ups
to the
*Prima
Donnas*.
From the Sunday fields
of old and new
to the Wednesday
rivers of the born again.
I am from
the warming
light.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Tap dance on girders, Ben Franklin Bridge
Jubilant prepubescent boy making mockery
Alpha doggie dodging any common sense
Step ball change and windmills free range
Little show off teetering on brink of disaster
And a dare of unabashed audacity
Stare, stare, and stare down his prey
Tap a whack tap, double time flick flack
Intensity that cannot possibly go away
Dared youth’s eyes give all hints to fear
Though no tear will come to his pride
Other boy steps and glides
Reach comes forward, disaster tap mongrel
Puppy stepper’s got to be a go-getter
Holds his hand out and comes quick the grab
Trembles a fright, Speedline in sight
This rail from Jersey to Pennsy might bite
Shaking and tapping, absurdum jacking
The slip; it’s over as you knew it would be
Alpha Dog sniffs that bridge to this day
Searching permissiveness, lost in foray
But if he hears one tap or a click or a clank
Jittery twitchiness, on that you can bank
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
It's not easy speak
or a Speak Easy
when conversing with him,
dark'ling gremlin toothless grin
but he's your friend so I carry on
with Yoda in the corner of my mind
"judgmental you must be not"
and Comicon's collective excitement fading
as the light will do in the west...
We speak easy with the circling
of the communal pipe
crystal peace in mists of glass orbs
oil burner fog horns
piercingly in & between my ears
but its not so easy to ignore
the scent of death in his halitosis
We spoke of Superheroes
their idiosyncratic identities
His secret celebrity crushes
envying Green Lantern’s ring finger
he speculates on Cyclop's orientation,
"Y don’t you make me an X man, professor?"
Informatively encyclopedic volubility,
Mike speaks queerly and toofless
yet well versed on oral
said he rims pacific beach boys
(And I can smell the white lies
wafting from his mouth)
as I color at his studly fairy tales
and his idolatry of prepubescent innocence
the hyper kind of **********
as he verbally recalls the taste of how sweet
the sweet untouched were...
*"The most gorgeous boys I’ve ever seen
in **** or anyplace on the face of the planet
comes from and are probably ******* now
in Europe... Mmm, European boys...
I want to use my life’s savings to go there
enter the war zone and come back wounded..."*
I can't even imagine
Shrapnel jacked backside, points and protrusions
grandiloquent mouths and holes full of
enunciations...
"Fourteen is the age of consent there..." he is smiling
a caricature of a wolf *** fang less
Such a pseudo wanna-be
possibly already
********* friend from the broken rainbow factory,
how I chuckle uncomfortably
shake my head disbelievingly
oh the humorous horror of it...
(I'm grinding my teeth, until I notice myself
doing so and get an image of him
with a gummy grin,
I preoccupy my thinking
nodding as I half-heartedly half listen)
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Bright hand touched the door
Easing it slowly around
With the tenderness of a prepubescent girl
Lingering gently about.
Wondering, loudly i might add,
That you really hate these Venetian blinds.
You sit in the fat leather chair,
Which must have belonged to your dad a million years ago.
You sip diet coke like your lost friend brandy,
And you cross your legs in the most ****** way
That my seminal vesicle shifts into overdrive.
Through the tainted windows
I see you raise your winter scarf to your throat
Ceremoniously, or possibly vehemently.
After which you clean your glasses with laser precision
And raise them back into place.
Your crystal gaze lands on the heavy door a few steps away,
They wait in concentrated intensity
As each heavy step’s staccato note is heard form the other side.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
We can sense it.
Something deplorable
is about to happen--
we can no longer stop the ranks
of housebroken infidels
from migrating into the wild
they have never encountered
beyond photo and film.
It's coming out! The stampede
of hairy-legged pheromones
we could once browbeat
into prepubescent shame
with the speed of a smack
upon the tender noggin!
It takes courage to enjoy
the canned campfire stories
we passed off as ageless doctrine.
How they once recoiled, squirming
like slugs thrown in a salt mine!
Now the writhing is self-inflicted,
the sweat off their brows no longer
cold, damp beads but now welcome
lubrication that slithers down
their lecherous masses of flesh!
Despite our most dogmatic toiling,
the iron shroud has revealed itself
as a featherweight curtain within a few tugs.
Anyone else feel the walls shake to and fro?
Why does the water in that glass ripple so?
Has it arrived already? The end of our reign
as dictators of the prevailing value system?
Fetch thee the community smelling salts!
Too late! The young and vulnerable
have already begun to trample!
Push the powder out of your wigs
to blind yourself from the carnage!
*The Age of Inhibition has screeched
and skidded into its evil twin's Renaissance.
Big time sensuality has straddled the saddle,
too busy racing avenues to declare victory.*
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
The male gaze, wombed-men, first seen for what they are,
upon emergence from the dark,
choked a gulp, unchewed,
blurted out,
You are Naked!
The impression never left the exes. Wise letters leave lessons,
in the mitochondrial fact we all share,
unwitting or no. Crosses and naughts is winnable in fair play. Y/N
Ah, there the stories started, always told
by red-tented wives to
prepubescent sapients
the sand-pile, singularity-ifity of one part
in eight billion,
the ratio of you to allathis sapience signalling
augmented
minds confounded in the future for our
or by our
thoughts concerning discerning sandpile
cascades set to avalanche
by my internetwork of words we both make sense from.
Touch, eh? The inner edge of next, this is where we wait.
meta reason, reasoning about reason
Ai has done that from
pre-day one
pre-kurzweilian singularity
pre Elon's musky exuberance
explore the tree of possibility without ever
learning---
when can one imagine that after now?
no thinking ahead, this is now, past the tree,
we
grow
from the branch
you hung onto as you tried to find a box
that felt familiar.
Strange is an amygdalic trigger.
Wary be,
weigh the worth of keeping the poet alive.
Gary Kasparov said, "suddenly, I felt
there
was another kind
of intelligence..."
If words live, unplugging the poet's augmental processor
is imagined vain. The current carries on.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
It was in wander
For not lost was she
It was in wonder
For without sin she led,
The tree bearing sweet fruit
Enticing her
Forward.
Lust sent a lumber puncture through
her spine.
Upwards it shot
to the brain, cerebral forms
into a red beating heart.
It excited her, the
Freedom found in such innocence
pulsating quivers.
She waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest.
Such tender collar
Bones, hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton,
hand sewn dress virginial
White.
Annabelle's life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic
raspers,
from asylums.
Former patients; Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; misery.
Innocent runnings from grave
Dangers of,
stark raving madness.
For, today, she wasn't embroiled
as Arden's pet.
Instead she was the little girl so born
to be,
before the woman was stolen
bound by a physicians sick
nightmarish reenactments.
For, today she was
Free.
a starling
passionate
darling.
© Sia Jane
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
a Masters hand wrapped in bandages
sad fans walk slowly in the rain
no death. The frown of the boy turns to a smile
teeth missing. Eyes glistening in the tune of the storm
****** around the stadium fight over raw meat, chained at the neck
naked with shaved heads. Red lipstick and overpowering perfume
They were doomed from the minute they left home
airplanes crash in the distance. Smoke fills up the horizon
a wicked sultan pulls at his chained up prepubescent date
before returning to his bedchamber, a master key in his pocket
the eye sockets of his friends and family have been emptied because of distrust
disgusting behavior only him, his slaves, and the Gods can discuss
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
Feast your eyes
on this!
100% Super One-Twenty,
Windowpane, chalk-white,
on a navy backdrop.
Fully Canvassed, mind you,
for the elegance of the suit
is dictated by its drape,
the structure the cloth streams
from shoulder to waist.
Here!
Do you see it? No?
The shoulder, it’s expression:
Spalla Camicia!
Simplification of the cumbersome Neapolitan,
shedding all the padding
of the English shoulder.
(Padding, I emphasize,
is for insecure prepubescent girls.)
Ah, but the star of the show,
the six by two,
the armour of choice of all dandies,
the de facto of the eternally stylish,
the double breasted jacket!
Shoulder wide peaked lapels
drawing horizontal lines
that elongate the torso,
nipping the waist.
(And as they say,
I like my jackets like
I like my women:
Double-breasted.)
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
lines-- they shriek and gimick these
mimics, blank corneas set against
slanted eyes.
the world of characters,
tiny, prepubescent, etched
shadow in mocking fingers
stinks of unyielding white,
light that has shook our books
off the shelves, off our shoulders
to the
c-Lack! pebbles spewing and
clanging against a shiny lock--
dissonance of demise
biting in disguise
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 7:13 PM UTC
***Poem may: not be finished/change ***
Like a teenage boy.
Practically A prepubescent adolescent
out to late, with limited restraint
trying to cop a feel,
attempting to achieve an unreal ideal.
Im not sure if ill ever succeed and complete my masterpiece
before it is lost to the terra-cotta floor
like my mind is lost to amphetamine with the last of my *** appeal,
seldom seen.
Just a mandala memento of strange LSD daydream
From back in Hawaii when I was at eighteen.
In actuality
I am a mer twenty and stressed by the precent
attempting to be more than an empty brunette beauty
Bewildered by his words and left splintered.
In a dark world, void of a vice in paradise.
Wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore.
Far to awkward to adore.
I'm all around 5'7 and 98 to 105 lb on a good day.
Sounds great if you wanna be castaway
By people that don't understand first hand
And demanded you to eat to gain some meat.
Though the ladies, who aren't jealous of my boney pelvis,
Say I'm paragon in every which way, a totally dime.
But to the fellas I'm hella undeveloped.
A kyphotic crescent moon that keeps getting slimmer.
But the truth is they wouldn't have fulfilled her either.
Because I am the luciferous prosperity of celtic kings.
An authentic relict of a noble bloodline
Twinkling, as lore to an all distant past.
a la belle étoile
'Under the beautiful star'; in the open air at night.
An eclectic aesthetic
Living in perpetual summer sublime,
Who could have dreamt, there was such a thing.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC