Call her a girl, call her a whore,
call her a lady, or what you like more.
She’s here, so sore, her back on the floor,
her thighs spread for more of the ones she’d ignore.
She’s here to please you, so tiny and tight,
she’s here to tease you, your mad appetite,
she’s here to squeeze you, make you feel all right,
she’s here to release you, give you back your mind.
What comes to her mind? You should never know.
She’s your souvenir? You’re her Voodoo doll!
She sucks out your fears, inflating her own.
And deep in the night
she takes a wild ride,
a mysterious ride
down to the tide,
an uncontrollable tide
where you've got no more rights,
lurks into your ears while you sleep all alone.
What comes to her mind? She cuts you out, all,
but you never know.
Don t call her
© Copyright: Яррилло, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109092305901
Свидетельство о публикации №109092305901
Рецензии
I don't usually like poems that I can easily swallow in one bite, but this one was more of a ride with adrenaline outbursts and sparkles in a lovely pattern. exciting piece of art.
Уильям Кетамин 24.09.2009 18:55 • Заявить о нарушении
Уильям Кетамин 24.09.2009 18:55 • Заявить о нарушении