SHE'S SLIPPING
There was a lady who loves to write,
her pieces are both from dark and bright,
and these words are not for your comfort—
although she overthinks from retorts.
Lover of masks but true to the pen,
sheltered under the old paper tent.
One face without a permanent name,
poetry broke her treacherous chains.
Her mistakes are tattooed on her skin,
she cut her wings because of her sins.
Sought appreciation from wrong ones,
she even ran from the right one once.
She sows grudges and reaps resentment—
she tries to change every now and then,
but her first love is strenuous to break
like a witch's decision by the lake.
She scrutinizes each soul like math,
but she's barely even good at that.
Most of the time the outcome is true,
and she slips at the moments she knew.
The red rose guarded by thorns she made,
she faces waves, she will never wade.
Waters wash away pain with her songs,
vines may break but her roots remain strong.
Rich daughter from the Northern border
spends her days at a quiet corner—
will she find the forgiveness she seeks?
Will she find the love she dreams to meet?
YOU ARE READING
CROWN
PoetryA collection of self-written poetry about the writer's perspective of the world under the guise of the crown.
