Women like her don't complain when it storms. She's convinced they can't hear her screams... the wind chill below freezing down here in the depths of her pillow cried tears she shudders in the corner of her peace afraid the darkness will cause her to succomb to her mental chambers
Women like her don't complain when it storms
Her blanket snug to shelter her from tornados of discomfort... holding onto the facade strictly poised before the strangers face; the stranger of love--- now approaching anniversaries still estranged grimacing at unbelievable defintions of love--- she sought the shelter of her blanket to shelter her from admitting she had never fallen in love
Women like her don't complain when it storms
The storms of "are we meant to be"... lips meeting those of a lover for what seems routine
The inconsistenties of the storms patterns hadn't met the actions the meteorolgists predicted... she shivered conflicted with haunting memories of petty battles tired of fencing herself in from the stormings winds and rains
Women like her don't complain when it storms
They relinquish all rights of freedom of speech, dancing off rhythm along the membranes of love flow, they remain facetious to the passers by, telescopes unable to see her stars, identity stolen, prepared with rebuttals for every reason to love, stolen away inside locked gates of lonely affirmations, unable to sink to her knees to let out screams, pyramids of complex desires to love but be left alone---
Women like her stay hidden
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