Her eyes beg for forgiveness and her body pleads for rest.
She needs the money, though.
My placid eyes cannot help but linger,
On her curves and her hair and her skin
I cannot help it, but if I may not touch her with my hands,
I may at least steal her pride with my eyes.
What a beautiful mess.
I wonder why, this happened?
Her skin is fresh and free of needles but her eyes are dull with knowledge.
Her hair flows and frees itself as she lays twisted in sheets.
What a beautiful mess.
Her heels hurt her feet,
She pauses only momentarily,
And kicks them off, falls in bed,
Her hair a golden halo that rests upon her head.
What a beautiful mess.
They tell her not to speak, because she releases a heavy stream
Of F's and B's and S's and C's
She whispers in her sleep,
Curses that weigh her down.
What a beautiful mess.
YOU ARE READING
Painful Truths
PoetryLife asked Death, "Why do people love me but hate you?" and Death replied, "Because you are a beautiful lie and I am a painful truth." (completed) Well. Poems, if you could call them that. Just rambled and rushed night time thoughts. Some of these a...
