art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Ode to my vagina . Content Warning.
My vagina is a house. Mowed on the outside. Wide as a barn door. Some call it a safe house Others, a mad house. Because it has been a home to thirsty travellers with Itchy feet. Hungry and harried men. Men with no faces. Homeless men. My vagina is a house Overlooking the hills The road is slippery. Accessible with rubber boots. Beguiling! Beautiful at night. Some call it a haunted house. Because it has kept the Conflicted hostage and allowed willow men to check their souls at the door. My vagina is a house A classical ruin Movable and ambulatory The dwelling place of peace. A place of worship. Communion space. Many have sworn to Heaven and seen the face of God at the peak of ecstasy. Some call it a temple. Because it has restored faith to the afflicted and ignited the fire of a love lost. My vagina is a house A stone house stinking of hopelessness. Some call it a bulwark. A home for soldiers to drop their bombs, and fire shots. Just a fortified building for heroes to write history. My vagina is a house A fancy bed and breakfast. Where fool's gold is mined. Some call it a hotel. Motel, maybe? Brimming with art inside. White linen, and warm showers. A place for the spoiled, And fancy to smoke and drown. To tickle death. To mock purgatory. My vagina is a house. Mowed on the outside. Wide as a barn door. Known to carry countries. A nurturer. Life giver. Many men have called it home. It has been a home to many. Some betrothed. Some, like an office revolving door.
By kingsley chidiebere3 years ago in Poets
