Pisaries Creator

She said she was twisting,

tossing and turning

her head about.

She used to be a country star.

No one would look at her otherwise.

She is shriveled up,

hunched over like a raisin,

committing posture suicide.

She thinks she is bogged down,

crushed like a little beetle.

Red is her favorite color.

She could have been thrusting,

thrashing and throwing

her hips out.

Everyone starred at her stylish nylons,

so shiny.

Her heels not too tall,

her little knees wobbly,

walking little steps on cobble stones.

The narrow streets,

where painters held brushes once.

Her exquisite body.

Her round belly.

She is tormented,

tightlipped and tortured,

she wants to be remembered.

She is not a sell-out,

captured by the media.

Her legacy doesn’t deserve one incident.

Her mind is what people want.