Love: The Spiteful Whore

Poem By Lilly Rose

Love. What a fickle word.
The way it tickles your tongue.
It exudes fantasy, delight.
Love is a whore full of spite.
She toys with your reality.
You bury your face in her skirt.
Why then, does her ecstasy
Taste so much like dirt?

Comments about Love: The Spiteful Whore

There is no comment submitted by members.


4,5 out of 5
1 total ratings

Other poems of ROSE

Reflection

In the mirror,
She has so many faces:
Tearstained
Agitated

Sanity: The Last Sliver Of A Promised Heart

The hand which holds her heart,
Untrembling.
He possesses all but a sliver.
The piece that cuts,

Colour

Colour.
That simple 'u'.
It changes the shape, the flavor.
No longer an adjective.

Musican's Expression

Your fingers play upon the frets.
She is your lover.
The Musician's Expression.
You look so stunning

Solace

Today, I found Solace.
He sat beside me.
His hat was twisted,
Bottle caps around its rim.