You spiritual whore.
Share your feelings with everyone.
Inducing hope in all that will listen.
Row row row your boat.
Gently over me.
Float to my heart.
Sinking slowly to my feet.
Engage your eyes.
Look at me.
I flirt with your words.
Break down your barriers.
I reverse your disposition.
Carry on this conversation.
You lick your lips and blow the chorus.
You brush your hair from your face.
While your cheeks begin to flush.
Relax it's ok.
You can admit it.
You've really enjoyed your mind being fucked.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoesiaSad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
