Plum Orange

My pretty little poems,
they echo and reflect
all your catty comments.
Oh, what did you expect?

Your private little neverland,
eden trapped inside your mind.
Language written on your wrist,
bleeding out the time.

Move your hands a little bigger,
project, my dear, your words.
Nobody's really listening,
but still you MUST be heard.

Stand pretty and stand tall,
we need to see your eyes.
We're waiting to devour
the tears that poets cry.

Plum orange, can't you see it?
Just a wasted little day.
Learning and yearning, my darling,
oh what a way, what a way.