The Prostitute And I

In the dark alley along the avenue,
I saw a girl, I think she's new.
I went to her and ask her so.
She told me she was, so it's my cue.

I asked her, "how much are you"?
She said, "I'm free for now, I've a promo".
"And why is that?", I asked her again.
"I'm broke so I could forget this pain".

I grabbed her arms and got in the car.
Drove in speed from the place to the bar.
And then went out after a glass of beer
And drove with me with no trace of fear.

Together she's not a prostitute
And I not a customer in pursuit.
She's broken and so am I.
I'll be happy tonight before I'll die.

I, The Poet And You, My Poetry

You,
a woman with a keen ear of my beating soul,
never fail to dazzle me.
I,
a poet who writes novice verses,
always take delight to the sensuous thought of you.

Mornings never seize to exist when you,
my dear,
shine like the sun in the east;
Like the dark skies full of stars at night
that mirrors through the plain sea.

Fear not for my verses are still true;
I forget them never for they are locked inside my heart.
With time as the key,
it will always be opened,
continue to spill them onto you,
to dazzle and make you fall for me even more
as I to you.

I Want To Paint Orgasm

I want to paint orgasm.
Its figure and form.
Its meaning and ways.
I'll start with dipping my brush
Into your bucket
With the wet hues of scented pink.
And let me borrow your skin
To be my canvas.
I'll lighten my fingers
Just to slightly touch the surface
Of your sumptuous curves
And take a stroke to your mouth.
Then I'll never stop dipping.
Not until all colors are painted
To your soul.