Similarities irk her now; she yearns to be different,
To stay away from them, to be one of a kind,
The kind that women loved to hate, yeah,
Shining with the exquisite exuberance of the youth,
She desired to pull through the pain, stronger as ever,
She was the woman who just wanted to be her.
A distinct steadiness, as if during the storm,
She thought it was the winds whispering to her,
Poetry dripped from her lips and fingers,
Intoxicated by dreams and never blending into the nights,
She didn't want to be the princess behaving fancy,
To her, there was a fierce independence, a bit classy.
Hair deep hues to brown, waves of pure earth,
Each strand moving freely in an ocean born breeze,
Eyes of river waters, reflecting glossy serenity,
Faded memories made the corners of her lip twitch a bit,
Her soul glossed over, sparkling like a hundred diamonds,
She was a living angel, her halo concealed from sight.
YOU ARE READING
Into The Black Hole
PoetrySometimes, pain becomes peace. Eureka! He's an oxymoron.It's been almost over eleven months; six months when it got way too critical, but I've been evolving and growing up out of it. It means much less to me now, and again, it keeps reminding me th...
