"waists" poems
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Introduction
There they stood; keeping silent company.
Yet of His face, wept searing electricity.
To the lovers of life
Here they stand, keeping silent company.
No utterance dealt; yet clear in both their minds
A single, brilliant truth:
He longs for her with a savage delight.
And it cries from every fibre, exalting!
It is in the bearing of his eye;
Rifling through her tender flesh
In search of what he knows, from voices ages old, is there:
That her heart will beat for no other as it beats for him right now;
That in this moment, their Souls are bared
To each other’s glares- naked, and blemished, and cowering-
Yet his eyes remain fixed and sure:
And for this, she loves him.
For they have seen each other for the First of Times,
Truly! And as with many the Ancient Laws unfurled,
They stand aware, in lack of ever being taught,
Aware with every atom, every straining tendon tight
That their time's so very short.
And so they drink… wordless
To each other, to their youth, and to their bodies
Shining like never before in the noonday air
Garbed in cloth that snaps and furls around their waists.
They imbibe with electric eyes,
Eyes that are new born to this world of light
And come out screaming, living, and sensitive
For lack of ever being touched.
They revel in their new-found joy;
Pouring from Her figure,
Of Her sleek, supple waist and the arch of her back,
Bristling with delight,
Of His strong hands and easy smile,
That spoke of laughter scattered
Across countless campfires of summers past.
Their light does burn intense as any fire,
And when their brimming anticipation
Overspills its crimson chalice
The silence shall SHATTER.
To find peace again in each other's arms.
Fumbling in sweet darkness-
Of heavy lids, of earthy flesh,
With lips embraced...
In ravenous finality.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
The air thick with dust
Cows roaming the streets,
Flashing lights and loud noises,
Children laughing an playing.
Houses painted in sickening colors
sarees tumbling from the waists of women.
Amazing, flavorful, mouthwatering food.
Family and friends, celebrating festivals
color in the sky and all around
Though there are things both good and bad,
I love my homeland and I stand proud.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
I am carved in scars
In stretches, in mars and imperfections
Blood, sweat, thick skin.
Roots of strength and passion and pride
I will not trade my high mentality for your low approval
I am a queen of Africa
Untamed, ****** hair, color: opaque
Killed, straightened, whitened
Westernized, hypnotized, it's this way or the highway.
Bleached skin, egotistical chocolate, pale skin
Contacts in shades of green, blue, hiding murky eyes
Size 0, size 1, size 3, stop. Hips do lie, only flat and thin.
Push up bras, Barbie ******* corset waists.
Bikinis, mini skirts, cleavage, to hell with tradition.
I am carved in makeup
In luster, attention and perfection
No longer, blood, sweat, thick skin
Lost roots of strength and passion and pride
I have traded my high mentality for your low approval
I am no longer queen of Africa,
No longer queen of me.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
if i show you
will you understand?
how i've outlined these arms
vein after vein
where sunlight runs
i see only
lines to trace
i got a barcode on my wrists
scan me for the price
of beauty
i am as expensive
as what people think of me.
do you know what it feels like
to attach your worth
to weighing scales
and waists that never
slim down?
is this why they call them
shoulder blades
to cut through
your skin
to be called
"pretty"
thigh gaps that map
the distance between your legs
to make you
matter so much
you can't stand on your own
feet.
when you walk the shoes
we wear
will you know?
the path to be
called beautiful
is full of
self-hate
and we pay for that bill.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
i sit there with
the cool wind
breezing against my face
while the summer sizzles
on my shoulders
your golden thigh
sticks to my skin
as we drive to the game
every god **** week
the boys
they sit in the back
and pack their lips
and talk **** about
the girls
the girls
who don't realize
that they're their easy targets
who skip around
in their short, tight
dresses
they talk about their waists
and the way they like to moan
every little imperfection
all avail have they shown
they think that it makes them buff
they think that it makes them cool
and i let them light their egos
and sometimes i chirp on too
but yet i sit and listen
and sometimes i think
they don't realize that i'm a girl
too
i don't know how i feel about that
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
I'm self conscious.
You are too
Its hard not to be
It's hard to love yourself
Too be able to see past
All the things you hate.
It's quite a feat,
I know I struggle.
We hate on ourselves,
We hate on each other,
We know we shouldn't,
But we aren't stopping anytime soon.
You hate your thighs,
She hates her stomach,
They hate their waists.
No one can escape
The ridicule brought down on ourselves.
There is only way to end it
Stop hating yourself
And start loving your body.
You know that it's true
I know that it's true
But we both know, everyone does,
Its much harder than it seems.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Are you a tourist or
A volcanologist my dear?
With a painful joy
To a live volcano getting near,
Do you want to pay homage
To earth's nadir
Conscious that beneath a sea level
A sweltering heat you can bear?
Then to Erta Ale come you not why
Found under Ethiopia's sky?
With a style jumping high,
Hitting the ground
Beating drums, on their waists,
Sabres tied around
Afro men along with braided women,
With butter greased hair,
The latter ululating and clapping
In a row facing each other
Chant a love song
“My feeling for you is strong!”
The male herd camel,
While women babysit,prepare food
And make short huts
With tiny malleable wood.
Also dot the mirage-forming sand
Huts grand.
Are you a tourist my dear
Eager to see about
Out of the ordinary you heard
Say about multicolored magma
Volcano's dust,
Disgorged out of earth's crust?
Do you want to see a scenery
You have not seen
Since you were born,
How in a motley garment
Mother nature itself
Likes to adorn
Come then to Ethiopia,
Located in Africa's horn?
Visit Erta Ale ,
On earth
To run away from earth
Enjoying its hearth.
You will witness
The extraction of salt
In a volcano-formed fault.///
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
I was convinced that boys- all loose shoes and leather palms- don't care for fragile girls.
The kind that etched lotuses onto weedy waists, lost in the tangle of fine bones and became a brush fire of flowing sentences.
Boys want to drive themselves into flesh and wide hips that swing in circles like a pendulum.
-
See, us fragile girls, we grew thick skin before permanent teeth.
Our skin bubbles with the mind-numbing cocktail of anger and sadness and guilt.
-
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
How a kiss feels
It is indescribable
And yet I can explain
It in detail
Soft Lips press
Against each other
As hearts pound
Sometimes it is
Soft filled with
Love and warmth
And others are
Forceful filled with
Lust and passion
Fingers tangle in
The other's hair
Arms are wrapped
Around necks and
Waists fingers lace
Together as warm
Tongues press against
Soft Lips begging
For entrance
Mouths open
Tongues battle for
Dominance as each
Persons heart hammers
In their chest
Fingers entangle themselves
In long and short hair
body
Heat grows strong
And stronger
Until eventually shirts
Are discarded bras
Are lifted and
Moans fill the
Room
Heat fills your
Body
As his touch
Sends a shiver
Down your spine
Your face flushes
A deep shade
Of berry red
As he nibbles
And ***** on
The sensitive flesh
Of your neck
Causing your world
To go blank
This is how
A kiss feels
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
In the Webster dictionary beauty is defined as:
"The quality of being physically attractive"
And it never specifies what attractive is...who gets to decide it
but...
The screens, the magazines, they all scream
In high definition their definition of "beauty"
Beauty is itty bitty waists and walking twigs
negative spaces between legs that subtract another's value
if the gap is not there
It is lipstick and pale pink blush on rearranged faces
like children playing dress up
or a giant game of make-believe we are made to believe
that something is wrong with the way we look
And we have been directed well
the cruel criticism oozing out of over-injected lips
typed out with freshly manicured tips
"she has weird ***** "you have a weird nose" "lay off the cookies"
we read off the scripts, taking turns playing the villain and the victim
and there are no heroes here
There are no standing ovations, no thunderous claps await
Is anyone really watching?
Does anyone really see?
With pain hardened eyes we glare
we compare compare compare
ourselves to the models, the barbie dolls, the flawless magazines
our friends, our sisters, strangers on the street
and in our rooms before the mirror
our reflection the bearer of bad news
"you are not the fairest of them all"
will we ever be?
So much trial for so much error
we are worn thin and even so
even so we are told to lose a few
And we run, endlessly
in the hopes that we may be worth something
If only we would realize that beauty is a noun, a word created by man
between beaten and become
If we win this race we will have beaten the monster society has become
and see
that we are all worth more than words
we are flying off the page
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
There are more and more misfortunes in the world
Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions,
But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons
Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus
Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya,
I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage,
As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence,
**** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me
Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men,
I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease
But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies
My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them,
I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility
Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm!
Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom,
They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels,
I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity
Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love,
But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind,
They they nonchalantly pass on my **** *****
Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands
Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food,
Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat
The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity,
Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers
Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women,
Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow,
I thought my education will attract them to me,
To love me with those romantic University kisses,
But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion
They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil,
Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies
Of the forsaken African daughters,
Take me out of this ****** desert
Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar,
Take me to the equator line and give me a husband,
My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children
Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God,
Take me out of this ****** desert,
Where no man treats a modern woman,
Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream.
Because I have known from today;
It is accurse to be a woman in Africa
It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts
It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert
It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert,
O! Help me God.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
With chisel and hammer
I carve the length of your legs
and the width of your waists
and the bend of your arms
and the slope of your shoulders
until I arrive at your brain
where I reach with chisel and hammer
until I come across your spring
of wisdom and knowledge
your fountain of thought and belief.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
We are cows grazing
In our homes,
Plump,
People,
Waists,
Growing adding
To a full middle line,
We are nearly ready
For the slaughter,
It makes you think?
Who's table will we be on...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
Turning on the T.V, you see a beautiful woman
Standing up, proud and straight.
You look down at your not-so-perfect self,
And your heart fills with hate.
You’re not like that woman,
But you’re beautiful just the same.
You have beauty where she doesn’t
Internal beauty is what you can claim.
If only you could see it,
You’d know your beauty too.
Unfortunately, society has brainwashed us
Into not loving people like you.
If I could change the world
We wouldn’t have to have waists of a centigram.
And I’d have the cute guys love me
For who I am- not what I am.
So look at yourself,
You’re beautiful just like me.
Loving yourself is the right path;
Confidence is the key.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
IS THIS WHAT PERFECT LOOKS LIKE?
Skinny legs, bigger *******
Is all they want to see.
Flawless skin, tiny waists
(Obviously) the opposite of me.
Beautiful is thin
And if I starve myself,
Beauty is what I win.
People said, beauty is about the
Size of the ******* the colour of the skin,
The flatness of one's stomach
In weight and fashion look.
To me, there's only one beauty.
The one wherein you're contented;
Where you learn to accept and love
Your own beautiful you.
Imperfections, mistakes, flaws and all,
The beauty that really matters
Lies in our hearts, our core;
Cleansed by good conscience.
Because when you love what's in your inside,
You yourself will love what's outside even more.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
I have wide hips, a wide waist.
chubby cheeks and
short legs
given to me
by my mother.
she is not a witch.
she has wrinkles, yes
but they do not define her
nor would she let them.
I have no interest in making friends with fish,
small birds,
candlesticks or clocks,
or rodents.
I need human contact to survive.
If you put me alone in a house in a forest,
I will not clean.
I will not wait to be saved.
I will not ask for your permission to go outside.
I will leave.
I do not need a prince to live happily ever after.
I have short bushy hair
and a ******
yes, it's there.
underneath my cotton underwear and long lace skirts
that no one is telling me to wear.
I have a sister.
I go to her for advice.
I look up to her and I talk to her about
Everything anything everything
I do not need a prince.
I look up to my mother.
She is not a source of fear,
she is a source of comfort
and relief.
what are We teaching our daughters?
these imaginary princesses
teach our babygirls
to have long eyelashes
to have two inch waists
long luscious hair
*** appeal
and if they don't,
they will never live happily ever after.
If I need all that to get one,
I do not want a prince.
I do not want to be anyone's
cinderella.
I will not chase after anyone
if they choose to leave.
I will weep into my sister and mother's shoulders
But that poor,
poor
princess
will always be chasing
squirrels
to talk to
and men
to be saved by.
When will we teach them to save themselves?
When will they teach themselves
that there is no such thing as perfect
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
Oh how it eats me alive
As the thought dances in my brain
Am I not good enough?
Do you want another?
Look at how much more beautiful they are,
Their skinny waists and sparkling eyes
And a personality to match.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Last summer, you were sporting short shorts, a tank top, flip flops, and a smile so big it took up half your face. You used to frolic about the beach with your best friends, pushing each other around and teasing each other about the boys with tousled hair and dreamy eyes. You were happy then. Your hair wasn't an issue, nobody made remarks about the blackness of your skin, and you got along with everybody.
You heard so much about high school, and were more than excited to push past the doors to your supposed freedom. The first few days weren't too bad, until you realized that you had nobody to giggle and whisper with. All around you were beautiful girls with tan skin and blonde hair--so different from your brown skin and braids. And when you stood beside the girls with dazzling eyes and bright smiles, you couldn't help but feel inferior. When you became aware of their narrow waists and thin legs, you began pinching at your stomach and ******* in--trying to be just like them.
Just last year, you were the most outspoken girl in your whole class. Suddenly, your voice has gotten lost somewhere in your throat. Your anxieties fluctuate, and your stress increases. But you find
comfort in the contents of your fridge and sub-consciously begin eating and eating and eating until you feel satisfied. Here you are, undressed, standing before the mirror, staring at the number that has appeared on the scale in disgust. Nobody will ever love me, you think to yourself, as you point out all your flaws.
Your mother throws dresses your way, but you refuse to wear them. Some girls offer invitations to parties, but you decline. Why? Because you feel too unattractive for anyone. You feel undeserving of any love or inclusivity whatsoever. The old you is gone. Your confidence has evaporated and your self-esteem has disappeared.
It's strange how much someone can change over the course of one year.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.
after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.
after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.
i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.
and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.
because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.
and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.
in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.
if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.
and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.
if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.
when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.
but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
'I'll see that plate clean,' she said,
'Or I'll send you straight to bed.'
Liver and onions lie in wait,
two choices up for debate.
'I won't hear a word till you've finished.'
It lay there still undiminished.
It's cold, unfit to eat, congealed,
and nowhere can it be concealed.
'You should have thought of that before.'
When I grow up I'll eat no more
of that cabbage, liver - lousy crud.
Give me sweets and crisps, perhaps rice pud'.
She should have thrown it in the bin.
Now I'm stuck, a locust for my sin.
I must eat all, my waists expanding.
Though Mother's gone, her ghost's demanding.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
My father lit a cigarette and smoked the room up
with choked circles,
he rewrites every woman
he sees,
metamorphosis asunder,
because nothing is on tv.
My mom was hauled blindly
away from love to evening's riverbed
--to **** the fear of
correction away.
Birds talk about fish
that fly in airline crusades, gobbling up wise owls.
Blossom talons pluck
--up their words,
the closest a lie can come to the truth
and be set in stone None of them
will be remembered
the way they want to. footnote retribution.
The wandering dead only care about
modeling on the covers
of psychology magazines--hailing reviews that digest indulgence
beautifully,
carving chocolate waists
down
to starvation--we melt away to gnats
in Prozac hives
shingled with academic love papers
& bible covers.
Dear Alice,
you stole our table of tea, our shaved vigil,
our western rodeo,
our alcoholic omega.
Midnight on the dishonored battlefield
with the scythe beneath us,
we murmur love back into
our sheets of high horror.
Your meteorite adultery could not wipe
this hard drive clean--what we would lose...
the things we cannot touch.
Cloud 9 LSD,
its warriors passing
weapons down to the flock's ashes--to wives who fear
the wrath of their husbands. Chlorine gills quit
cold turkey
--sinks overfill under unorthodox skies--the turning of centuries
is nothing like flipping
pennies
into wishing wells.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
You step outside of the moment like a misty window bystander with your hood up and your hand warmers that you’ll put in your scrapbook so as to bless and keep this memory all your days.
Sift out the sound waves as you watch the dancing silhouettes of the good old days
Bringing tears to your eyes as you remember that someday this’ll be in a box wrapped and taped scotch-like for you to look at and think how lucky we were.
But right now you’re pulling all your best strings to carve out scrawled negatives on the glass before the condensation of your breath fades fades away.
Oh doesn’t it remind you, dear,
That we live in the awareness of fleeting moments rather than the moments themselves?
That we only put the remaining numbers of seconds on our dance cards and not let our time with fullness instead take our hands and waists?
That we scrounge for the film that we can Mary Poppins jump into on the other end of a short while instead of running the risk of forgetting by ripping open the gift of the instant we have been personally given by God?
Don’t let it pass you by because
Even though it’s only out the train window if you
Let it permeate your heart forever that’s the
Only way you can keep it in your pocket during your walk towards eternity.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
We blossomed in the hot brilliance of discovery and the deep cold of grief, eating social norms alive, tracing deathly hallows in dusty window panes, standing chins-up eyes-shut arms-out in that flood of September sun, calling ourselves wild, because we were.
Beautiful days, I remember. Days of soft. Days of blueness and falling leaves. Days of numb fingers scrabbling with ice skate laces and racing each other onto the rink. Days of studying our fears. Days of madness. Days of converse sneakers and combat boots and teasing height comparisons. Days of mutual insanity, sleeplessness, midnight conversations. Days of standing shoulder to shoulder. Days of unspoken things traversing the silence between us, a communication entirely our own. Days of laughter up to our waists. Days of belonging. Days of young.
You’ve asked me many times, dear, if there’s anything you can do for me. I always say no, but there’s something this time, and it’s this, just this. One small act.
Don’t forget.
Years from now, when everything is different, keep this in you, alive. A second heartbeat. For me. Please.
Don’t forget our days.
Don’t forget how we felt.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
My precious
You become a beauty
Only when you languorously
Hug the waists of damsels as cincture
Countless are the times,
earlobes or ankles
Unadorned by you
Inflamed me
A plain a yellow thread has ousted you nowadays
When you swing from an ear,
It is indeed fascinating to watch
You have even usurped my sleep
As a nose-ring, through its keen glitter
Costume jewellery has replaced you too, many times
Still, my precious,
It is when you are pawned
That you become real ‘gold ‘
Like the revolutionary
Who become more so
By getting hanged
Like a soldier
Who become more of a soldier
By getting shot at the border
My precious, my precious
My precious pledged gold.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC