• anetita 29w

    The Poetess

    If poetry was a person,
    She'd have a heart of glass within,
    Flaunting a feather quill finger,
    Dipped in her inkwell skin.
    Draped in darkness,
    She would love night, as I do,
    Burning the midnight oil,
    Writing tall tales of you.
    With a well-dressed vocabulary,
    And a mind full of sin,
    She'd be delicate to the touch,
    Yet filled with fire, to the brim.