Is It Poetry
I wash my hands, in your ink, fast between a
valley, it clings to me, lives in me, my pen.
and Waves, that run, i float on, the rose and hand,
and the sun on my face, this rose a tender bud.
I cannot share my forest, only you may know your
face, and rose petals find new lips, alive in silk.
Pink full lips glow red and they flood my scents
with folded secrets, and this nose, this tounge burn.
Orchestras, arrangements, notes that seize a score
of music cleft with bars, and pink, red and sun shine.
Pink is always, never one to leave you on your own, to
find your way that is your home, out side, and Rush.
Pink words are royal words to some, it is rare, to know
another forum and compromise, this norm, why is to tired.
I am the male, i will wear her pink, it is my crown.
Roses are never found confined, when i can make her proud.
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