I made up my face,
Still, my gestures are riding his horses.
I fail to look away,
I know
That he is watching from and he deciphers.
My hair is pulling me down so straight,
shines like the golds, but feels like the bullocks
The hair dresser is another bastard,
who hid in my curles tiny encyriptions.
Oh Mother, I feel so insecure,
As I feel my ass curving and curving and curving.
And these glass windows,
They add to my burning.
Cause, I see me, and all the others behind gazing.
Am I utterly, stunningly, outstrippingly amazing?
Oh yes, he is waiting, as he is getting there,
I am coming, but he thinks I am too late.
No matter the lip sticks, the tan, and the blushing I wear,
I cover, he, him and his way.
this is a fact that rips me off my hopes of solidarity.
It is he, his and him,
who knows so much of me.
I will never be.
No, I will never be he.
celine charcoal
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/frantic/
