scott moore | jenn


Her shoes
Lay on the floor
Lonely spectators
To the act, five
Toes exposed
Peephole socks
She drags
A war time purse
Beat and stretched
Too many forgets
Her knees
Dirty in desperation
Her face
Pocked and scarred
Jenn stop picking
Arms pale and bruised
From pull backs
And overtime
Her beauty
Now a pawnshop
Her curse, her cause
Burning rock
At any time
Her haunt returns
She up and leaves
Dignity behind
Her chore,
Only strains
The globs of cum
That feed her want
The rest
Is laid to waste
A one hit wonder
For facials
She’ll split a bag
Maybe 4 solid packs
To chase a high
That never stays
Worth it’s price
Her prayers
For fingers
Painted on
Stained glass
Unending nights
Roll into days
In return,
Vacant eyes
Guide a milk carton
She spirals
Working one
Square mile
Her soul now
She joins
The flock
To take
Her chest
A for sale sign
Her ass
A no return policy

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