Men prose on lips, eyes and soul.
That bores me.
Give me a collar bone, rib and sacrum,
I’ll show you the secrets of a woman.
Men have become so unoriginal, women are equally to blame.
She’ll want to be treated uniquely but she’ll layer those lips like they were pieces of toast with butter shea,
What else would he notice, glazed donuts, traffic roundabouts pout, full luscious, but forgets her name.
Like he misses the stop sign and goes crashing into her eyes,
She’s not wearing a disguise,
Make no mistake she loves to tell lies,
Shades of blue, shades of green tar coloured mascara providing the surface he shallowly travels on,
Pretending to see into her, speaking of soul like he’s wise.
“But I want you to love me for my inside”, she pleas,
And he prattles on about feeling weak at the knees,
When he thinks about her soul and pretends to love her complete,
She believes him and settles for his amateur bitter sweet, sleaze.