The story of my story

My story is like a harlot
Adjectives are her lipstick and fake eyelashes

Her smile is not vulgar as it tells my jokes
Her gaze is inviting as it shows my desires

Look at her heels its not the same as then,
I changed her name so you don’t complain
I even changed her eye color so she doesn’t look plain.

She walks in beauty,
But she talks only in duty
It depends on your mood sir,
She does overtime even you are crude sir

One sunny day she would want to fly
But all her wings will be drenched in her cries

Mirrors never told the truth,
We trusted your eyes rather your touch,
I never felt bad, but my story is a little slut
She wishes to go everywhere but she sulks much

Marry her, sir! She has suffered enough.
She might die soon she is fragile and her life had been rough.

A Portrait of my Lady

It starts with the hair flowing in this moonlit rooftop,
And cautiously painted creases on those eyelids shut forcedly
And imagine those colors in your words, comas and full stop.

It goes till your gaze can penetrate, corners and deep lies,
And how do you touch them with wet fingers and lips soaked in sweat
Heartbeats, fake smiles, silence and dried up those sighs.

Come back with flowers, impress with dahlias and kiss not smooch,
Spanish guitar with bread toast and buttered, aah, handful of chocolates
Smile replaced smirk and mono act being new position in bed.

It reaches till the illumination, navel and the slight curve on the end of the hip,
Man standing in the closet became rat and ran over your whole body
Flinching at every breath, so claustrophobic that breaks every single rib.

It ends at the end of his neck, sweet smell of an escape,
A horse ride and you on the back, sobbing, fretting
Coming to the center, blood, heat, bang! And crash.