El Dorado

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


How we all still want those golden stones

thrown down like old bones near tombstones

who we let take us home after closed shows

passing neon signs from bar rooms 

Oh, slow moans 

from cheap seats and expensive phones

Who we let spread us out on high school foam, barely know' em

drawn up those long roads, til morning alone, no secret codes

leave well enough alone; you cast the first stone 

Who told us to donate our hip bones to the boys' home?

'Cause we don't know we're okay on our own?

'Cause we can't leave our comfort zone?

Why should we trade a trailer for our throne?

 

How we all still want those coveted shrouds

thrown about like odes from drunken crowds

who we let take us out after broken vows

who payout 

with our breasts up and puckered pouts

who we let lay us down on their begrimed couch, well endowed 

cowed into whiskey mouths, disallowed and proud

for crying out loud, you're under a cloud

Who told us to donate our crowns to peasant brows?

'Cause we don't want to seem holier than thou?

'Cause we have no worth if we don't put out? 

Why should I be nothing to write home about?

 

 

 


Submitted: April 26, 2020

© Copyright 2021 cleo ashbee. All rights reserved.

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Poem / Poetry