lusting for more kinda whore

garden times

i wouldn't call myself a poet, but life is poetry.
i often think about how men walk the wild side.
then i remember not to think wild thoughts.

my curls bounce back quicker more thicker
my mind takes a little more time to differ

i spend to much time leading up to something to never finish, and i'm aware of this trait, clear as day.

my summer garden has never looked so good since you left. i grew violets and roses in the hope you'd notice me.

i don't hang on to lovers, i just hope and prey they remember the times, the garden times.