There is an beautiful young girl by the name of life. She sits on her white porch, behind her white picket fence everyday, for all her neighbors to see. They weren't sure, but as far as they knew she'd been on that porch since the dawn of time. I visit her everyday, though kids would rather visit the man on the corner. They don't see the beauty in her that I see.
She tells me stories of flirtatious smiles and newborn baby cries. I don't listen. Her soft voice is busy in my ears, but I don't listen. Instead I stare. Life has wings.
They are filled with the pure empty shade of creamy milk and they might be not so wide, they might not stretch like you'd expect, but God, those wings could carry you almost anywhere.
There's a beautiful young lady who sits on her pretty white porch in her pretty white dress with her pretty white wings. Most people pass on by, but if you take a seat and let her tell you her of her adventures, you'll get addicted, no doubt, on life.
YOU ARE READING
teenage fools
PoetryI write poetry about life, death, love, hurt, depression, and basically everything.
