Jen Juice

The south tried to teach me that being pretty…..I had one game.
Money.
Brains don’t matter.
I must be crazy.
I’m good for one thing – To look at.
To touch.
To keep quiet.
But oh, you peasants
Don’t you know
The truth
Isn’t that you were the whitest
In a doctrine
Of the you and I are in.
You caught lessons so old and thin
You never asked why
You felt any of that for.
Just a lousy I told you so
Hope to see you grow
The thought of this misery
Is the next alternative
To the life you were destined for.
Is here.

This entry was posted on November 18, 2017 at 12:52 PM and is filed under Jencerpts.. with tags growth, Her, pillowtalk, Poetry, Truth. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.