Shape me to your heart’s desire

I am your clay,

Shape me to your heart’s desire.


Curve my body,

Cinch my waist,

Broaden my hips,

To a figure men

Lust for.

Is my hair silky enough?

Smother me,

In case I wept;

Society hates the weak.

But feelings have you not?

Ruthless freak!

Shape me to your heart’s desire.


Should I

Man up,

Or woman up,

Damned if I labored,

Damned if I don’t,

Women don’t belong

In offices,

But oh so futile,

If you prioritized your

Offspring over a career,


What do they serve,

If you did not wed yet?

Shape me to your heart’s desire.


Do I exude excess kindness?

Guide me; tell me to be grotesquely mean.

I am too bitter?

How do I soften my core?

Men love the gullible.

Make me gullible.

Pour more rough sand

Into my mixture;

My people call me innocent,

Let my blood seep virility,

And then please dampen the clay,

For men love soft women,

Shape me to your heart’s desire.


Inform my hungry spirit

Of what more to alter,

Do I silence my burden?

It induces pity anyway!

I am stronger that way anyway!

They call it fake strength, though,

Do I spell it out then?

Won’t I be craving attention then?

My brown eyes,

Do I change those as well?

Tell me what else to repair,

Shape me to your heart’s desire.



My walls are high,

“Demolish them before you lose more people”

Then I burn my bridges for tenants,

That abused their landlord,

But, sure, for you, I’ll bury my worth,

In the same sand you’re carving

Your commodity with,

What about patience?

Gauge how much I should exert,

And when to be silent?

When to speak?

Where is your rules book that

I need to abide by?

I lent them my light,

And went to sleep in complete darkness,

How dare I ask for glimmer back?

You’re right, my sleepless mentor,

Hence why I beg your finger to,

Shape me to your heart’s desire.



Enslave me to your vision,

Of perfect existence.

I lie idle on your pottery wheel,

Allowing your coercive fingers

To narrator my life story,

To form your product.

I am your clay.

Shape me to your heart’s desire.



I begrudge the eyes

That get to meet yours

Every day.


I am jealous of the pillow

That gets to feel your gentle face

Every morning and every night.


I envy the cigarette

That gets to kiss your soft, pale lips

Every evening.


I covet your warmth.

Why is it that your clothes get to tug your

Coffee-infused, cigar-intoxicating scent?


The whims are driving me insane.

You’re enticing,

And I wrongfully crave your affection.


Upon the dreary glooms of shame,

I’ve wandered around the shore,

The brisk ripples called his name,

And my fancy for him grew more.

My pale cheeks await lest he came,

His delicate hugs and kisses to pour,

The soft wave of blues cannot tame,

Wrecked pieces of him that I adore.

But alas, he was a figment of flame,

An imaginary figure to which I swore,

Currents of longing now not the same,

Since I am not the soul he yearns for.

Child of spring

Atop a hill, my wildflower lies,

Bees on his dainty petals kiss,

A child of spring, and I his lass,

Timid my envy, don’t take amiss.


Sugar surges to the stream of lust,

And I wilt evergreen with jealousy,

Shielding of pollen blown in gust,

Dandled they his skin, so velvety.


But winds that dare to startle him,

At their breach, I fumed and cursed,

Desert my tenderfoot without grim,

My delicate flower is not well versed.


Had the clime to my control attuned,

To a heyday of springtime rosary,

I’d implant nectar to your wounds,

And may our leaves bathe in poetry.

Three seasons

A familiar waft of fragrance suffused,

Stairwells abandoned and broken;

My system to detect it almost refused,

Or at least, grant its access a token.


I counted the previous seasons trine,

Nine months we have not spoken,

Lord knows I haven’t ceased trying,

Our friendship I have not forgotten.


Yet when this comforting scent arose,

My swollen heart was hence forsaken,

Woefully, the fond memories and prose,

Windy gusts of December have taken.


Pardon my eyes’ unwelcoming gaze,

My worth and pride have now awoken,

The days set your debris and dregs ablaze,

I dismiss you excused and I am not mistaken.

A voyage to the unknown

These inhabitants take their pity,

Upon slow-walkers treading to and fro,

As if the voyage was rather easy,

Too apparent a path you cannot forgo.


Yet blear-eyed as theirs agonize,

Muddled lads and lasses as we,

A hefty burden from the unwise,

Seizes our future from its glee.


I’ve survived twenty-four summers,

But, alas, with a ring-less finger,

And no child drooling under covers,

Yet, you urge my doubts to linger.


Thus, dwellers sympathize ofttimes,

As they gaze aloft toward “commoners”

Thinking they’ve assembled the signs,

Whereon the route is overt for others.


Come then, follow the steps to my sea,

Where mishaps and calamities assemble,

And no stone nor trophy husband is key,

For your path to be deemed successful.


That Irish brogue

I chased the rainbow with urgency,

Toward your wondrous pot o’ gold,

Methinks you possess a soul stunning,

Oh tantalizing gilt hail and unfold,

Sláinte, sweetheart, may you be well,

My sentiments for you deepened tenfold,

My pulse, I begged you a pint of mineral,

I fancy my silvers and thy golds to mold,

A spirit as archaic as the one you own,

Is adored plenty, ah too precious to scold,

Sigh how I singe over that Irish brogue,

I surrender to thee; I am yours to hold.