Poetry: Secret Woman


She is my indulgence,
The lion silently roaring,
The forbidden chest in my chest,
Bolted shut but overflowing,
With bitterness and loveliness,
The whole background story,
That’s ne’er foretold nor foretelling.

She is the annunciation,
Of all my inebriation,
Giving way to every emotion,
With excess and devotion.

She is a poem that need not rhyme,
But with the limitless of her sultry description,
She is bound to find,
Release in melody,
At least some of the time,

When people first meet me,
They often deem me strange,
All out there with something missing,
An open book with a missing page,

I fashioned my heart,
This pink, fleshy bitch,
In this manner, in this way
To hide,
My inner burning woman,
My inner burning pride.

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