I find it rather difficult
To allow my orange-peeled skin
To come in contact with your
Pink-sugar complexion.
And although I can't taste the gold that resides underneath my popsicle-stained tongue,
You assure me that the metallic taste is there;
Right before your hooded henchman robs me of my oral riches,
And throws me out to sea on a pile of driftwood.
YOU ARE READING
Academy Of American Bullshit
PoetryCollection of poetry, parts of short stories, and the occasional rant written by an artist who is angrier than she'd like to admit.
