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Compromised of mostly afterthoughts.
Old colors combined, made new.
From the window, to the wall;
my naked floor was warm
with your embroideries.
But fools rub their muddy sneakers on you,
as if you, were theirs to ruin.
Oh rug, Let them stomp and soil you.
Beauty is not virgin thread,
But in the scrubbing hands.
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Kinda like A Coat by Yeats, except there's 11 lines, not ten, and it doesnt rhyme and doesnt have Iambic pentameter. Meh, that's why I'm not famous for poetry, or famous at all, for that matter.
and yes line 4 is supposed to be rapped...
Procrastination for a Poetry midterm is rough.
Ps. This was a joke.
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