I write happy poems.
I love rock.I can play the flute.
I can cook.I hold her hand during the walk.
I don't smoke.I can kiss her on the street.
I can sing.I can marry her.
I have never eaten peach.I won't see my friends crying just because they were themselves.
I can be me and feel free.
I always see acceptance from random people on the street.
I am not scared of a man at night.
I am not scared of a man in the morning
and the afternoon time.I saw my friend with a supportive mom.
I have my dad, who says, "I love you for who you really are. "
I am with her, and I feel safe outside.
I always meet allies.
I'm not a good daughter of my mom.
She said it's a bad thing to tell lies.But you get me, right?
Cause I will fight for some of those lies.
Cause someday we are going to make them facts.
YOU ARE READING
poezja o gościu w głowie
Poetryz roku na rok potrzebuję się rozpisywać coraz bardziej; równocześnie tracąc w głowie zasób słów.