I am a Lolita, they think, and not yet a lady.
They may be right, or wrong for all I care.
Say I were a lady,
I would smile to appreciate, not to deprave.
I would giggle, for it must have been funny,
And not to be cheesy.
I would laugh, not to mock.
Then if I were sweet, that would just be me.
I would be friendly because I need friends as you do.
I would sing for the love of it, dance for the love of it,
And not merely to tantalize.
But then,
I do crave attention at times, Am I spoilt?
I do read through, Am I convoluted?
I do accuse, Am I scandalous?
And so I love, only to amuse.
I am loved, more often as a muse.
I romanticize the wind, the rain, the ocean,
Yet, I corrupt.
For I am just as old and as hurt as you are.
A book with pages turned and misread.
Old and young at the same time,
Experienced yet undiscovered
...Sinful and restrained.

Pic Credits: "Seated girl and Venus" by Vincent Van Gogh. 

{ This poem is by a guest poet who wants to contribute by the name of "Marooned". }

{ 4 comments ... read them below or Comment }

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