My heart she is pretty, a maiden of string.
She shudders and twists like a bee in the spring.
Sometimes she smiles, sometimes she winks.
She's never been silent, she says what she thinks.
She sits on my sleeve, she sits there and sings.
When you touch my hand she does all of these things.
I love your heart all glimmer and gold.
He reaches to others the young and the old.
compassion flares in the light of your eyes.
Your heart ignites fire absent of lies.
I feel him reach over to me, timid and bold.
To the hand of my heart, I let him take hold.
Our hearts are noisy, our hearts are brave.
Made of brilliant colors they rarely behave.
I shake my head, you shake my heart.
I petition the Lord, not to rip us apart.
For you are all colors and I am all sound.
We are too naive to keep what we found.
~Daisy Red
YOU ARE READING
Becoming Pretty
PoetrySometimes my mind feels like a liquid, and it takes all of my strength so keep it from slipping down the drain. Sometimes it throbs like a a broken bone. Often, my poor brain pulls me in every direction like 1'000 marbles cascading down a flight of...
