This post is dedicated to my father, who thinks that I should write happier, less depressing poems (something I need to focus more on). I wrote this little number in December and I think it’s pretty good for a short poem. Enjoy!
Hear women yelling, “I’m a quaintrelle.”
Passion on top of desire,
I am woman
hear me roar yellow orange
flame, don’t fade away, new and true across the broad,
sights foreseen cannot be touched,
Cultivated by pastimes pleasures,
charm sweeter than a prince,
Lit up to the tone of
a million lightening bugs.
She is wild.
With no lion standing next to,
the brown dusty plains and
Evergreen valleys are in reach,
her whole life, passion inhaled by dreamers,
—those who vision anything is possible.