Riding on a shooting star
hoping to find to warmth on Venus,
using a point from a star as my pen
and the blackness on the sky as my
canvas, I draw imaginary figures of a
Christian Lover was send to warm me in his arms.
With the sun's burdens in his hands he,
accidentally touches my cold Heavenly Virginity, my skin melts to rain.
Freely I fall down to earth
and awaken to find myself resting
in a warm place in your arms.
YOU ARE READING
SPOKEN VOICES
PoetryI wanted someone to take an interest in me not as a pretty face but because I had something to say. I wanted my poetry to feel ugly. When I was a little girl, I was told, little girls should always act like a lady. I had to lose my voice just so...
