Louisa

Love holds the door ajar, my hair falls down unkind, nowhere gets me very far, I sit on a high stool, drink a little wine, God knows I need a few, you ask about my Ma, Oh she’s fine, stuck as usual in the tar, the money she blew, in a poor easy light, just to please some other fool, cruising in her fast car, it rocks around her lies, no wonder I’m scarred, there’s nothing cool, about the hurt inside, except that other part of you, viewed from afar, that sees each morning rise, like the northern star, I’ll have my time.