When dusk turns to dawn, I find where I belong
In the heat of the night, I act in spite
As he calls me down, he sings me his song
Floating up high, I go into the light
Do I question all that he does for me?
I suppose I do, but I try not to
Who am I to depend with such a plea?
Is it because of all there is to do?
Keep my mouth shut, wash the dishes
That's all a woman is there for; a man
You don't know all that I am, or will be
As a woman, doing things only I can
After all, we are more than a pretty maid
And our control over you will never fade.
k.g
YOU ARE READING
colorless
PoetryIn this instant, I see it all so clearly; while colors are such a vivid asset in his book of pictures, I have realized that the reason I do not fit in this title is because I am simply devoid of color. I am c o l o r l e s s. I am nothing but slathe...
