A Harlot1 min 304 1 min 304
My visage glitters in the red street light,
Bedecked with flowers, mostly torn.
Handcuffed with lust, I lie down every night—
With them on the bed of thorn.
Penetrating the sensitivity of mine, they make me bleed,
Their manhood overflowing inside me seeks to dwell.
Could they not look up and see the walls plead?
Forget those eyes which pretend pleasure getting swells.
The night for me is dense, dark and deep,
The morning too goes on reframing my shape.
Once more I lie down under them as my heart weep
Although assured that maybe I do save rape.