Pretty Girl

pretty girl, are you alone?

why can't you find love

and you still long for words

to speak your sore soul

it is surprising, kind of wrong

to see you on your own

why you don't get anything more

and after a while it all blows, it roars

you get pushed over, all torn, all over

the dark place, or even bluntly ignored

like one hour job or more,

you are even the ultimate score

why, you even have a heart of gold...

somebody told me its not me

there must be something wrong

it is the world, all messed around, indeed

it is not what it should be

in a world where your mind was seen

it hurts, drags, prolongs, twangs

it has got chewing fangs,

dripping blood, until you are utterly lost

at a compelling cost, some know bang on

where it belongs: to the bones, mind, core

you can mention more and more. you pulled

towards, not able to defy the gravity force

because you know pretty girl, the reason for

Its him you have have gone for

the innermost beauty truth he belongs

its an easy logic chain, it urges to be explained

from my chest this is a sharp and subtle pain

it does not refrain, and it's not a gain, no blame:

he sees that I believe,

there is a sweetness, the seed of purity within,

the power only pain gives

and I wanted it for me to harness, please

cherish, nourish, let it be, make it rain babe

from you and me, because is fire my dear,

build up this my king, drain the glorious spring

I found myself blown away

its too deep, it fires up in our veins,

why would you rip off in vane

all the lockers from all the rusty chains

I freeze: of the sharper material, great

literally imperial, I need to be real

I am the object of the fire, the poster to admire

the former treasure, the pray in the shade

now the spirit in a roar, the real person,

I raise. We are owners, of one body,

but we are our own souls, in arson

endowed flesh on fragile bones cracked

I dive within in a well known trap

I could go for a while:

I loved your style, you loved

modern antiquity to be auctioned,

because there exist, and persist

a dirty purpose,

to make mud out of a golden oasis

approved: to be easily able

to blow a fire on our shiny table

all served, in a golden tray

in the glorious memories today

because I am being OK

to be able to type this way

and to step out, make my own way

to something simple like the woman

out of that pretty girl

the alluring lore, the vigorous shore

some might as well remember of