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