Her flushed blue jeans are a story.

A bit toxic, a fox with tricks.

You talk about a razor and a process,

And starts a project at the wrist.

Her face hidden in a book,

In disgust by her looks.

Her room is her partner.

Four walls are her armour,

expressing opportunity,

Only when its darker.

The only place she shows her face.


To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.