Her hair is frizzy,
Her clothes are sweaty,
Her drink is chilled,
And the sun is still.
Enjoying the summer she lays there on the bench,
But in the night, her heart quenched.
Terrible she looked,
They say she cooks,
For the man in her heart,
And for the man in the grave.
- B I S H O P
YOU ARE READING
Poetry.
Poesía☆ Please don't judge me, I am not prefect. I'm just trying my hand in poetry. I've been really into it lately. ☆If you like it please like, comment, vote and encourage me. ☆ It won't be really nice if you copy. Copy rights reserved. ☆ Thank you f...
