"thirties" poems
His Grandparents were Romany people from his maternal side
In Countries of Eastern Europe they travelled far and wide
But the most basic human right their right to life of them even denied
In Belzec Concentration camp where a million people died.
I never knew my maternal Grandparents with sadness he recall
Due to circumstance of birth and their way of life misfortune them did befall
My gift of music such a marvellous gift to them I feel I owe
In Belzec Concentration Camp they were murdered decades ago.
A tall and handsome man in his early thirties with wavy raven hair
With the marvellous gift of music a great accordion player
In silence we sat and drank our beer as we listened to him play
The beautiful old gipsy tunes from Countries far away.
That all things do come to an end in some cases a lie
In Belzec Concentration camp the gipsy music did not die
But that the gift of music does live on should not come as a surprise
Something that those who commit crimes against humanity seem to fail to realize.
He played at the pub on passing through him I never more may see
But the beauty of his music will live in my memory
His maternal Grandparents who died at Belzec their lives were not in vain
Their music in their Grandchild has come to life again.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
I can remember that first encounter. He was a man in his early thirties, bright eyes but with a dark grin and was smoking your cigars wearing a black hat and he was also carrying a guitar. He was here to show me how to strum an few chords.
I remember him distinctively saying...
"Guitar playing I am about to teach you is really the same as love making you know?"
I laughed and blankly said
"but how so?"
" Well... (grinning)
Each string has to be carefully plucked, and contains a different sensation and vibe if you mishandle the strings that final note will sound awful.
He was showing me how to re-tune and play a few chords which were C, D and G then pass me over the guitar back to me.
"Its your turn dear, and be really gentle"
While doing this and playing the first few chords of the guitar which was D I could feel him rub my shoulders and chest gently.
"Don't worry you can trust me, I was just loosening you up we can't have you feeling tense"
"Now, show me a G"
I begin to play the chord G while doing that he then grasped firmly on my other hand : I can feel a surge of heat from his hands firing up my fingers. This heat was making its way to my chest. He now caressed and circled around the chest and then higher up to my ***** I can feel his breath and his tongue swirling and stretching out to **** on my *******
"Okay ... final note play me a C"
I crouch down to the floor and begin to strum that final chord and can then feel him stretch his hands beneath my skirt I could feel the sensations further of his fingers strumming my ***** in the same rhythmic motions of his guitar previously.
"See what I said? music playing really is the same as love making"
"I nodded and said yeah I suppose"
A bit shaken and uncertain how to respond but he kept whispering into my ear and repeating that same line: while kissing me on my cheeks, stroking me up and down in circular motions in which I could feel a tense feeling of release and then silence again
Was that the final note?
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
I realize I am too compassionate;
I feel everything at a 100% rate,
and I loathe it so much.
Why do they come on so strong all the time;
it mentally drains me.
I am destined to die early;
I can't see myself living past my mid-thirties.
I learn how to accept death as it is,
and I am slowly learning how to let go.
I want to cry, I want to scream;
I want to voice out this indecipherable torment inside of me.
But no one will understand,
and no one will know;
this mask of mine can't be taken off.
It is what I desire,
yet I want to scream the truth out to the world;
my alternating flow of thoughts,
my constant battle;
it goes down with me to the grave.
This happiness is an illusion;
There's a second mind that takes over,
and blocks away all of the hopelessness.
It brings forth a temporary elation,
a nonchalance,
a pretentious ease.
Is this better?
Does it make me better?
Or does this delude me to the point
where I become more destructive
and cause more harm than cure?
Why does my mind run so much?
Why does this version of me exist?
Because I am born empathetic.
Because I am human.
Because I hold a great understanding of myself,
and a greater awareness of how I am.
But not behind in the how it came to be.
No one holds the answer, and I am forever left with questioning all these endless why's and how's.
Everything else is left unanswered
perhaps until the day I die.
— Y.H.
the end of the tunnel,
gentle fervor.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
I will tell you what he told me
in the years just after the war
as we then called
the second world war
don't lose your arrogance yet he said
you can do that when you're older
lose it too soon and you may
merely replace it with vanity
just one time he suggested
changing the usual order
of the same words in a line of verse
why point out a thing twice
he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally
it was in the days before the beard
and the drink but he was deep
in tides of his own through which he sailed
chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop
he was far older than the dates allowed for
much older than I was he was in his thirties
he snapped down his nose with an accent
I think he had affected in England
as for publishing he advised me
to paper my wall with rejection slips
his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled
with the vehemence of his views about poetry
he said the great presence
that permitted everything and transmuted it
in poetry was passion
passion was genius and he praised movement and invention
I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't
you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write
4.7k
i have paid the fines
of dozens of overdue library
books i never finished reading.
i love reading.
i love curling up
in a big leather armchair
while the sun reaches out
to me through the window
as time slows
and my coffee grows cold.
but tolstoy and fitzgerald
sit on my shelves
or in my purse
carried everywhere
and collecting dust.
i can see the silhouette
of who i would like to be.
the curve of her hips
the stillness of her limbs.
she grows her own herbs
and tries out new recipes
while her husband is at work.
she doesn’t mind driving
for hours alone
and enjoys singing
along to the radio
going five under the speed limit.
she is not in a hurry.
she is proud
and sure
and poised.
she reads books and returns
them on time.
she gave up on dreaming
and hoping
and longing
and finally began
living.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties
without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway,
raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake,
unmarischinoed.
I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much
syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off,
saw people tie the stems in knots,
I had the impression, I think, that if people
had to do all the things they do with cherries
to make them flavorful, they must be really
**** straight out of the bag.
I made my mind up that they were unpleasant
and I would have nothing to do with them.
Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries,
which my mother loved, so I wanted to love,
I could at best eat the chocolate around that
thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid
wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry
and not the coveted prize.
So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail
party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled
at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working
my way around the stem and coming awake
to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years?
They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy,
something wealthy people indulge in and so not really
belonging to my world. They beg for the company
of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared
and doted on. The keep revealing themselves,
on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me
to try something else that I have never tasted,
like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself
naked, without judgment, even at the innermost
feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why
they say making love for the first time is giving away
your cherry.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
sleeping tears awoke to crimson crust & apple red veins,
eyes peering through the dizzying fog to find a faucet
& drizzle rain like nectar down the peach pit's core,
along rugged edges & oval pores,
imperfect patterns & lightning blinks
remind the second sadness to cry once again.
My swipe of crust is rusting
like a smoker's yellowing finger tips gathering paint on callouses
& cracked lips
mirrored reflections shadow gaze,
squinting to locate bronze crow's feet of a man, mid thirties,
lying for what-to die
dying to wait-for what
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
When here
In "Poetry Land,"
I am traveling
To distant worlds
Of the imagination
Unending,
Mystical and Exotic.
When here
In the "Real World,"
I am a single, childless
Woman.
Mid-thirties;
Two cats.
Misunderstood,
Unconventional.
I lost my glasses
This morning.
Suddenly I'm back
In highschool,
"In my mind."
Remembering all
The times
I taped them;
Tried many types:
Scotch, Masking, Packing.
Luckily, In my adult life
I'm now prepared.
I dig under my bed
For my "back-up pair."
Checked every corner
Of my small studio
To find that my spectacles,
Just like lost socks,
Have vanished
To Neverland.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
A candy striped knitted blanket covers were frail thighs,
resting underneath her hands that have baked bread, dug earth and planted tulips.
Hands that have stroked the head of a new born baby, still glistening and ******
Hands that have crawled out thirties Jewish ghettos.
I reached out to touch them and she turned to me and said,
'Even my wrinkles have wrinkles'
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
she wanted to find something that made her passion hang
like a human from a tree somewhere in the late thirties
a silent hand pressed against her sponge mind
making her leak her tongue all over the ill surface
years have passed like a seamless tomb
with eyes that scream please, hold me here for more than just two minutes
I am bored with the 1 hour love meetings and the detours
that lead me to the lions cage
the forbidden conversations and the numbed movements
stone tongues of gargoyles limping on the edge of
Gothic cathedrals in Prague
an animal somewhere in the wild dies slowly
a snake gives its venom to prey
and then you stood timid at the bottom of the mountain
as I struggled to make my way down
I thought of how my mother would be proud
to see me in a wedding dress, letting go of the only daughter she was able to drench out
of her body
surrender I thought never come in the form of bliss
till I realized I would hold out against all odds with no mercy
I'm not going anywhere
I stand right here in the corner
with my poetry spiraling down my thighs
in hopeless patterns
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
Do you ever feel the noon breeze?
hot yet relaxing brings you to an ease
it unfold the memories inside my brain's deepest crease
mesmerizing breeze i am standing under a tree
Moringa Oleifra the mighty
on which sits a sparrow chirping in mystique
and another strange little bird with long black beak
chirping tooo-weeee-t
on the other branches two squerrals playing hide and seek
and there sits a crow alone on one peak
i am in whirl of memories of past year 2016
didn't i mention it's about a boy in his thirties
he talked ocean deep
but treated me like i am a feast
like he is a ringmaster and i am his beast
i can still feel the pain of that time when all the good is out of my reach
Why do i think of him now when i am in peace?
would he think of me like i did?
nah or may be
nostalgic or i might weep
my orange colored dress doesn't irritate me in this scorching noon
but thoughts of you did
i have to head back from this muzz
i am going back to my people who loves me
where i am allowed to refuse
where there is no abuse
i am returning to peace
goodbye noon breeze
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
antlers
fourteen points
cernunnos stirs
while the daffodils
reach their thirties
orderly routines
-
stones start skipping
replete potholes, puddle-filled
paving the way
capsizing axles
-
sipping steam from fog clouds low-hanging
not really minding that my shirt is wet from the concrete
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away
Logan Robertson
4/14/2019
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
In the window of the pet shop
four small faces, lost.
Their owners, sick with worry,
want them found at any cost.
A quad of treasured family pets
roaming wild and free,
unmindful of the panic
they’re causing back in Leigh.
A sausage dog called Mini,
sleek and burnished dark.
She’s likely got a little voice
that is more squeak than bark.
Tinks: a sturdy Staffie,
with a plea on Facebook
praying for his safe return
his people beg you “have a look”
“in your sheds and garages,
or in the kids' playhouse.
You never know who could be there
‘cos he’s quiet as a mouse”.
A grumpy Border Terrier,
Underbitten, rough of coat
“Bill: a much loved dog, we miss him”
in shaky letters wrote.
And, last of all, would you believe
Someone’s lost their tortoise!
He’s been in the family since ‘77
(let’s hope he isn’t corpus).
For pets are no mere mortals,
nor fallible as we.
They’re up there on a pedestal,
in anthropomorphic fantasy.
Then one day they disappear,
our soppy hearts turn wretched.
No stick to throw, and if we did
none to go and fetch it.
On centre stage of family life
entangled in our tribe.
No separateness of species,
always by our side.
So if you’re there, or round about
And you should chance to see
Mini, Tinks or Billy
or a tortoise in his mid-thirties.
Tell the little pet shop -
it’s better late than never -
to mend an aching, wretched heart
who thought their best friend gone forever.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage
picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty
she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen
picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be
achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 9:07 PM UTC
From a young age I was claiming to see angels, aliens, elementals, sometimes god himself walking in the sun. I remember surprising my teacher at age four by explaining infinity and drawing a figure eight for her.
I'm telling you these things, and other parts of my background because it all just feels necessary, if I'm to have any credibility for rational thought when I somehow find a way to explain what happened in there. It's been almost a week, I'm still jacked in the head. One thought, one memory, one feeling and all I can do is sob.
I digress. My point is that I've always been a highly spiritual person. What started as a Catholic would travel through taoism, Buddhism, the Cherokee and Hopi, the Hindu.. I've learned their Kung Fu, their Asana yoga, their healing through chi. I can say with no ego or shame, I am a shaman.
Christ, coming full circle, now amazes me the most. From that short line, "for through me all things are possible."
It's funny, but it took all that eastern mystic learning for me to come to understand the truly timeless nature of the cross, of God, and of ourselves.
I also, from age fifteen, was frequently hypnotized, and used an array of other advanced tequnique therapies meant to increase sub concsious brain hemisphere communication speeds. Remarkable stuff. From there I taught myself how to meditate and heal, and my colleague and I continued our experiments on into my early thirties.
I'm writing all of this because I want you all to know what I mean when I say "I am extremely in tune with my body and often sense things intuitively."
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
4:10 AM, Thanksgiving Day
he lost his breath for good while I watched
In his thirties
lungs weak from polio and huffing Marlboros
Saturday I held one corner of his glossy box
his pricey glossy box
that was to be covered
with free soil
Some spring eve a quarter century later
the old writer
who told his tales well into his eighties
slipped into hospice sleep
and at his widow’s request
I got to hold up another corner
and place another flower
on another fancy shining tomb
Another thousand times
since then
I carried the ironic weight of lives
not all the way to their holy holes
but inch by inch towards the unknown
my shoulder sinking a bit more each time
while I searched for some epiphany in rhyme
we all bear the pall
of everyone’s fall
each has one shoulder sorely bent
regardless of who chose to repent
so as we walk with this worldly weight
someone else helps shape our fate
for try as we may to walk alone
our time is never solely our own
We are the pallbearers, pallbearers
for all
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 7:25 PM UTC
I am soft and gentle
and bring a clarity
to the dark night.
I wear a loving darkness
like a comfortable cloak.
I am the vanishing vampire
puff puff you see me now i
am gone.
For I am the creature
of the night.
When your world caves in
your emotions turn to
darkness.
Just listen deeply and
you may hear me flutter
in the blackness.
For you are not alone
as your friend I am here.
A gentle creature comfortable
in the night.
I am the sometimes the forgotten
hidden in the corner in my cave
there i hang.
We live our lives upside down
sometimes living our teens
in our thirties.
As we slip into caves through
cracks often hiding in places.
We light the night with
sound, magic and our
emotional moon.
Soft and angelic we are
so innocent in nature.
In this topsy turvy land
we turn the world upside
down and find GOD also
lives underground.
So we never fear or
feel claustrophobic this
darkness is our home.
I never waste my time
looking to the future
to me it is all a blank.
And there i find my freedom
no burden or expectation.
I am the deep sleep that
has no dreams.
Perch with me in my cave
I will give you silent night
I am your greatest ally
in the darkness.
As I fly into blackness
with speed and purpose
There in the moonlight
I detach myself
spread my wings
find my freedom
Out of site I vanish
from the world
for only
those who look into caves
their darkness will ever
have a chance to find me.
Sometimes I fly high
breaking into the night
turn of my sound
and just disappear.
I relax sit back
into the my void
have a break
from myself.
Puff puff i am he vampire
who has just gone.
Remember when your world
caves in turns to darkness.
Do not panic just disappear
into blackness.
You will hear me flutter and
know I am near.
For with a little bat
becomes very clear.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
(or why start smoking
in your late thirties)
a confession.
the w h i t e paper
thin, c r i s p
against tips
of fingers
with the t h i n n e s t lines of gold
the burnt umber
to the brown
to the beige
to the white
to the black
black
black
i n h a l e
suddenly i'm alive
i know because i can feel
something
(anything)
then the
e x h a l e
each cycle a moment
suspended in time
the wisps of smoke
transient
unique
and finally
the smell
an
a n c h o r.
not what you expected?
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
in 2028 we will have a space station circling mars
i have never felt something rattle me so deeply through my heart
my bones will not stop trembling when i look to the stars
i can not stop the twitching in my toes telling me to go
i always threw out “astronaut” as a dream of a dream
something there but always out of reach
but now i know that i can touch down before i’m in my mid-thirties
i see the full moon and i can’t stop the shaking
send me home
send me home
send me home
a teacher asked me if, given the opportunity
would i take a one-way ticket off-planet,
and never look back?
and i laughed
and i told him
mars is not far enough away from earth
send me to saturn and pluto and tie me to halley
i am ready to touch other stars
i love the sun but she is not my Sun
i love the moon but she is not my Moon
i have been sick of earth since i knew that i could be
send me on missions to put it all behind me
“what about your family”
what about anybody?
what about anybody?
i don’t want to be alone in the cold of space
i want to find something out there that might be companionable to the human race
i want to go home
i want to go home
i’m not sure how far that will take me
and i’m not sure how far past it will be from mars
but i know that getting up there will be the hardest part
lift-off
houston, we’ve got a problem
i don’t have enough rocket fuel to get out of this solar system
let’s use a gravitational slingshot to throw me out of orbit
i’ll love earth when she is the little blue dot on a map of the stars
andromeda holds my heart
send me to mars
send me to mars
let me return to the red of my heart
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
Lights haven’t looked like this
Since I was in my teens
Messing around with my hood rat friends
*** and amphetamines
I took a handful of Blue Dolphins
That were thirteen bucks a pop
If we bought ‘em in bulk, I guess
As we did more often than not
Or maybe a few of the triple stacks
Red something-or-others, I think
They didn’t work on me this time around
‘Cause I threw ‘em up in the sink
Now I am in my thirties
And my scripts **** with my brain
I know I am speeding my ***** off
But at least I feel like old times again
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 10:42 AM UTC
I am called an angel
I am called a ninja
I wear silver bangles
My color is of ginger
I have doll like eyes
My figure is of a small coke bottle
I hate tales of flying lies
I live in the pacific portal
I smile when I am sad
Tears are always in abundance in me
I have a temper and I do get mad
I am only a human, you see
I love reading and adore writing
But my mouth ain't a word diarrhea
I love silence and scenery sitings
I've been writing for over an year
I am in love with my adorable dogs
Who make my lone day bright
Cloudy yet windy, misty or fogs
I love this weather, as a cold night
My inner me is a mischief child
I am in my early working thirties
My imaginative writing gets wild
I am quite authoritative
I teach info tech, I love my students
Knowledge sharing is my best part
I am intolerable to fake mutants
But, I hate to see them depart
My name is Seema and I am a free writer
With the challenges I face
Each day makes my life brighter
With the blink of time in trace...
©sim
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC
Empty room
Empty heart
I just wanna go back to the start
the start of it all
the walk before the fall
Beginning before the end
When
when will it end
The hurt
before being put in the dirt
before dirt is all i know
I mean c'mon we all know this is a show
for all the foes
and the hoes
who dared
dared to doubt my creativity
To suffer your insensitivity
to my insecurities
because when you're in your thirties
I'll be in my prime
while you wont be able to drop a dime
for the shattered
dreams wasted
seams burned
hate overturned
only crushed dreams
left for you, never me
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
I’d done a lot of drugs that summer, drank a lot, and lost my virginity a hundred times over.
David. He was the man who ****** me for the first time. He was in his thirties, a Buddhist, and a patient teacher.
In the dark, he was so **** iron filings and gum.
But perhaps it wasn’t him that enticed me into *** I think it might have been a combination of everything. The way his girl-faced Buddha shone by the light of a candle. The view from his window – city flowers and washing lines, Chopin on the stereo, the cleanness of his sheets, the girl in the next room talking loudly about Jean Paul Sartre.
I want you, I said.
Fifteen, I was. He didn’t know that, of course.
There was a terrible pressure when he ****** me, so he told me to
Relax
Relax
Relax
Imagine you’re emptying out
Imagine you’re emptying out and accepting something holy
communion if you like
you're catholic aren't you?
You look lovely
You feel lovely
You look lovely
There was a part of my mind that thought of girls being torn through, blood and pain, embarrassment in the morning. I couldn’t stay hard.
There was a part of me that gave in, with my knees up by my shoulders.
There was a part of me that wanted to flip him onto his back and **** him, part of me that was desperate to be a man, part of me that hated this submission.
In the morning there was no embarrassment, just cereal and ten different types of smile. Milk in bed. A lecture on loving kindness.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
I'm sitting here in a club that's very
Well it's dark,
But it's not a place for women.
And who knows,
I think it might be the thirties.
I'm surrounded by men,
All in impeccably fine suites,
I'm drinking countless martinis,
I never have to light my own cigarette,
I know this is what I do every single night.
Everyone fawns over me.
I know that I'm very powerful.
I have the power of a man.
So I act like a man.
Not *****
Just unashamed.
Maybe I have a rich father?
That sounds right for the time.
I can tell that I am very powerful,
I already know that I am
"Breathtakingly gorgeous".
Everyone eats out of the palm of my hand,
I am fun.
I am free.
I am the untamable soul.
You know?
The one they right novels about.
The one that "got away",
Because she was a song bird,
And one that wouldn't fit in her cage.
And I am to be a married woman.
Someone will disburse my power.
I will become a miserable housewife.
I will have four children.
I will bake apple pies,
I will let my husband
Please himself using my body.
I will help with church bake sales.
I will drink.
I will drink.
I will drink.....
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC