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Bad Poetry*
<p>*Bad Poetry*</p><p><br/></p><p>In the silence of the street that led to her home, </p><p>she sat—waiting out a dream. </p><p>Wishing wealth would find her life in disguise </p><p>Today, she had read a book— </p><p>one found in a dusty secondhand bookstore. </p><p><br/></p><p>A love story set in a town </p><p>she’d never seen. </p><p>And for a moment, </p><p>she wasn’t just a girl in flats with borrowed data— </p><p>she was someone’s daughter </p><p>who could afford tomorrow’s wonder. </p><p><br/></p><p>She dreamed a father draped in gold, </p><p>Not stories of absence,bitter and old </p><p>She prayed for love, a tale well-spun, </p><p>not the shadowed kind she always ran from. </p><p><br/></p><p>She now wishes, in a softer tone, </p><p>that she had let her youth be known. </p><p>Laughed louder, danced in rain, </p><p>not chased womanhood through silent pain. </p><p><br/></p><p>She wishes she’d stayed a child </p><p>a little longer— </p><p>kept her innocence tucked in her drawer</p><p>or maybe in a storybook's corner, </p><p>instead of handling it </p><p>to tired smiles </p><p>of men twice her age </p><p>who called her “mature” </p><p>and bought her with loose change. </p><p><br/></p><p>She traded dolls for grown men’s gaze, </p><p>stole seconds from her childhood days. </p><p>Danced too early to older songs,</p><p>and learned too late what felt so wrong. </p><p><br/></p><p>Now she sits—still young, but worn— </p><p>dreaming of the girl </p><p>she could’ve borne. </p><p>Not with riches, not with fame— </p><p>just with peace, </p><p>and a childhood name.</p><p><br/></p><p>*~ART* 🤎</p>
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