Tell me woman of

the grain and

pine,

tell me what's

so fine behind

that tide.

Something divine

or

something blind,

the storm

outside is

less than kind?

Because our bark vines

cruelly know

that that's

not a

shrine.

Call knives and

poems

sister hives,

but in these verses

we truly

lay, surprised?

No you're not,

the tongue is a knot,

and then you

believe

that you're

a thought.

Tell me woman of

the grain and

pine,

tell me what's

so fine behind

that tide.

Mother of your fractions grew

into a tree

filled with bruised

leaves,

winds are thieves.

Seeds from

a tree,

trees from a seed;

ripe peaches

is

all we see

and deceive.

Gendered farmers plant life,

oh it makes

me cry,

it rains from

the sky of

lies.

Nature is nurture

for the ones

that

receive torture

by hands

that only touch to

find worth.

Tell me woman of

the grain and

pine,

tell me what's

so fine behind

that tide.

Old, ripe,

green, brown, slashed,

and bashed;

don't tell me that

I'm on the

clearance rack

because you're the

one

who made

me be done.

A flower from a

tree that

was cut

down without a

sound, I

bloom from the

hurt,

and oh

it works.

Say my name like

a

hairy peach

and I'll preach

like a mad

slave that yearns

for whips to

get stronger

with every hit.

With the

dirt that you spit

I'll make it

shift into

the soil that I

need to plant

and

mature my soul in,

you're a

fool left

with a bad joke.

Tell me woman of

the grain and

pine,

tell me what's

so fine behind

that tide.

If it's the rock

that stroke

your

cheek and

you're felt in tears make

a pen out

of the pain, make

the paper shine;

oh my hairy

peach you'll

make them whine.

Tell me!

Tell me...

Tell me?

Woman of

the blank crime

and

the letters

so sublime.

#ChickLit