Nobody stories me to sleep, nobody.
That's more than any kisses could ever do,
More than snores.
You know a word is powerful
Once you verb it -- "stories."
Many tell me I do not tell them one ever.
I do,
New ones, always.
I do not have old stories.
An old one has suddenly shown up its sour face.
Would you like to lie next to me
As I read it out? Come.
It was an innocent pull towards colours,
And those who coloured with them.
Are you listening,
Or are you giving in to the smothering curves
Of my body?
Is it more compelling, the contours?
Come back, come hither, listen.
The artist smiled back at my smile,
Made me sit on his lap,
Helped me hold the brush along,
And brushed on his knees, and upwards.
He brushed back my hair,
And breathed pastel shades of lust
On my bare neck.
Are you with me?
Or thinking of that breath on my bare neck?
He held my left foot up,
And gently dabbed his brush
Generously in black,
To paint on it an anklet.
He joked he could open it
With magic tricks,
As soon as I would sit facing him,
On his lap.
Are you angry with him?
Don't be yet.
I had fled,
Henceforth had him avoided.
But another merciless day,
As was the coffin to the dead,
I returned to the colours.
He said he would paint on me,
I was all of twelve, thirteen may be.
He said he needed to use his tongue
And not linseed.
This tale is not so long,
Stay with me.
Briefly, as they say,
Too many things happened.
Too many to count,
Or recount.
Like a feeble sparrow
My soul flew,
With a desperate strength,
Flapping, fleeting
On his canvas
Fierce disappointment.
"I told you to stay," he fumed.
I told you, stay with me.
The end is near.
He caught me by my feet,
Even as my soul was embittered and away.
An artist articulates well,
And tried to cajole a capture.
That was one day,
I did not give in to stories.
I ran.
Before that,
Very proud still of it,
I splashed the tube of black,
Destroying his majestic landscape
Of dotted yellow-green grasslands
By the amber sunset.
Have you slept off?
Now you could.
This is an old tale
Of victory, and sense
In a twelve year old,
Perhaps thirteen.
Quite rare.
She did not break.
Neither her voice.
She is an interrogation,
A ballad bright.
You could now sleep,
Holding me tight.
Tomorrow's your turn, remember.
To story me to sleep.
That's more than any kisses could ever do,
More than snores.
You know a word is powerful
Once you verb it -- "stories."
Many tell me I do not tell them one ever.
I do,
New ones, always.
I do not have old stories.
An old one has suddenly shown up its sour face.
Would you like to lie next to me
As I read it out? Come.
It was an innocent pull towards colours,
And those who coloured with them.
Are you listening,
Or are you giving in to the smothering curves
Of my body?
Is it more compelling, the contours?
Come back, come hither, listen.
The artist smiled back at my smile,
Made me sit on his lap,
Helped me hold the brush along,
And brushed on his knees, and upwards.
He brushed back my hair,
And breathed pastel shades of lust
On my bare neck.
Are you with me?
Or thinking of that breath on my bare neck?
He held my left foot up,
And gently dabbed his brush
Generously in black,
To paint on it an anklet.
He joked he could open it
With magic tricks,
As soon as I would sit facing him,
On his lap.
Are you angry with him?
Don't be yet.
I had fled,
Henceforth had him avoided.
But another merciless day,
As was the coffin to the dead,
I returned to the colours.
He said he would paint on me,
I was all of twelve, thirteen may be.
He said he needed to use his tongue
And not linseed.
This tale is not so long,
Stay with me.
Briefly, as they say,
Too many things happened.
Too many to count,
Or recount.
Like a feeble sparrow
My soul flew,
With a desperate strength,
Flapping, fleeting
On his canvas
Fierce disappointment.
"I told you to stay," he fumed.
I told you, stay with me.
The end is near.
He caught me by my feet,
Even as my soul was embittered and away.
An artist articulates well,
And tried to cajole a capture.
That was one day,
I did not give in to stories.
I ran.
Before that,
Very proud still of it,
I splashed the tube of black,
Destroying his majestic landscape
Of dotted yellow-green grasslands
By the amber sunset.
Have you slept off?
Now you could.
This is an old tale
Of victory, and sense
In a twelve year old,
Perhaps thirteen.
Quite rare.
She did not break.
Neither her voice.
She is an interrogation,
A ballad bright.
You could now sleep,
Holding me tight.
Tomorrow's your turn, remember.
To story me to sleep.
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