Pretty lie,
Don't cry,
The waking slumber in
your soft neck,
The cross from your mother
Shivering under your weeping laughter.
Pretty lie,
I don't dare hold you, even when
I'll rope in the brightest star,
I'll paint the ocean, skies, my eyes, my mind, to your favourite hue, black in nothing.
I'll find the finest sparkling gem,
a dwarf tinier than a seed,
hang it around your wrist like
chocolate beads,
All for you.
Pretty lie,
I'm not quite right,
Gravity passing on the spotlight,
Moon my humble floor tiles,
Metaphor my biggest vile,
Polite too close to curt.
So I'll keep mum,
Marr my mellow lips,
Chain my arms and ribs,
Of bone and cold fingertips,
Of the darkest roses,
Of the black in your lies.
My breath in yours,
My heart with yours,
But I'm afraid our gestures and sacrifices and sentiments hardly mirror,
You have me confused, dear.
Pretty lie,
I'd say you're not quite pretty,
I'd dare say beauty never quite pain the heart so.
YOU ARE READING
No one Gives a Damn
PoetryPoems I have written about feelings and things no one probably gives a damn about. I'm on Facebook as The Writer. (Nevermind, no one gives a damn anyway)
