Water
It tastes of little
not sweet inside my cheeks
or sour stretched down my throat
its texture plain and simple too
like a blade of grass,
left to grow.
I fear no drought of lurid lust
from some ugly, stuck-up, stupid dove
ill sit and wait, just think
of what we might make
with our love.
they'll laugh, they'll tease
I'll sit and listen, and keep my life.
I'll wander on, aimless too
waiting for,
only you.
Posted May 7, 2019, 8:17 PM UTC
61
This was cool. I like how you rhymed dove with love, but in a context that doesn't feel cliché at all. I would personally change the line "of what we might make" to "of what we might be making". I think that would flow better. I really wonder what the title is about though, maybe you could add a little more context to that? I like it, great job!