There once was a fairytale.
Each woman would live on Venus,
their breathless days waiting for sex.
Each woman dressed in a pastel technicolor gown,
gay for her star to be exploded.
Each man was a creature from outer space, black eyed.
They had an idea of each woman to be exotic,
beautiful -sunset hair,
colored glass eyes.
Each woman had hunger for love, I know.
It is not a fairytale.
I’m sitting on Venus, a wool blanket over me.
I look at the horizon.
A creature was heading my way, red radiation along the horizon.
He grips my waist with his hands, fingers drumming on me.
The damp air above me is like a lid.
A stifled groan comes from his mouth, smells of dirty metal colored cinnamon.
I sink glass into one of his eyes,
the hole drenched with dark blood.
Bastards.
I am not a angel, I am not a wrecked angel.
Can you hear me?
I ache.
Miserable tears come out of my eyes,
I am, I am, I am…
am I normal?
YOU ARE READING
You Don't Have To Be Perfect.
PoetryJust like how no body owes anybody to be "perfect", this book consists of not "perfect" poetry by me. The poetry in this book will range from poems that I wrote for assignments at school to just poetry that I wanted to write/wrote in my free time.
