the poets house
The poet lives here.
She is a sad little thing.
With cold hands and feet.
She wears turquoise and opal.
She lost her faith in love
When she realized
that love and ecstasy were
two very different things.
The doors of her house are silk.
The walls are rice paper.
The waves are her lullaby .
Time is her only lover now.
She’s all dressed up,
in the linins of the past.
All dressed up for war,
The struggle.
She lost her faith in love
When she realized
That love was never
Really,
Love
The doors of her heart are tin.
The walls are dried leaves.
The waves are her lullaby.
Orion is her only lover now.
Lost in the poets house,
she is a sad little thing,
who wants nothing more, then to write bad poetry.
Because you cant write well about someone
until they hurt you real bad.
She is a sad little thing.
With cold hands and feet.
She wears turquoise and opal.
She lost her faith in love
When she realized
that love and ecstasy were
two very different things.
The doors of her house are silk.
The walls are rice paper.
The waves are her lullaby .
Time is her only lover now.
She’s all dressed up,
in the linins of the past.
All dressed up for war,
The struggle.
She lost her faith in love
When she realized
That love was never
Really,
Love
The doors of her heart are tin.
The walls are dried leaves.
The waves are her lullaby.
Orion is her only lover now.
Lost in the poets house,
she is a sad little thing,
who wants nothing more, then to write bad poetry.
Because you cant write well about someone
until they hurt you real bad.