the truth be told

i remember him,
as michelangelo.
he painted
forbidden fruit,
as a masterpiece.
i was a sprig,
when he
flattered me.
he took me
to his mouth,
he molded me,
like stone.
his chisel,
carved out
my ass.
i kneeled,
to an invisible
and thanked him.
i was the wheat,
being harvested,
to feed
the hungry.
lips unlocked,
to swallow
my grain.
it was a season,
of fashion,
and dance.
i would dress
he would
paint me again,
but the canvas,
was yellow.
the stone crumbled.
i planted
a garden,
i was raped,
and it rains.
the rings
of the tree,
tells my story.
i have grown
to be a poet.
my poems,
are my
and my

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s