Work of Art


“I’m a person, not a work of art!”
“Well, baby, that’s on you.”
My hands bleed upon the steering wheel,
Ironic I still drive with zeal.
Nothing can dissemble you;
Every story, song, and verse resembles you.
Like surfacing for air
To a life raft.
A day at the fair
With no riff raff.
Like coming home every night
To a gypsy lady’s curvéd thighs.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem