Glass Shoes

A little something for all the forgotten ladies who go through hell everyday.

For little Cinders,
The beaten wife
Of Mr. Right,
Who scrubs all day
And cries all night.

For the blushing bride,
The forever more
Of the boy next door,
Who play’s happy homes
If she's not playing the whore.

For the innocent virgin,
The beautiful name
In their newest game,
Who dirties each day
While men enjoy her shame.

For the painters muse,
The stolen child
Of a cheating paedophile,
She spreads her legs
But thinks he’s vile.

For all the women,
Who find the comfort they seek
When they come to meet,
With sore red fingers
And swollen feet.

For all the girls,
Cinders, the bride
The virgin, the muse,
Who can free their feet
From their broken glass shoes.

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