She uses her skin as a trap
To catch men and drug them
With their own lust until they
Surrender to their hallucinations
And fly away on a trip
To her body
As she touches them softly until
Maybe
Their bones get filled with dopamine
And their mouths get to taste
Her beating heart under her *******.




- LynnAA

when the language of rain
is in need of
translation.

when the parallel lines
have
crossed.

when observing the time
by the pizza boxes
arching
toward
a ceiling fan.

when pages of
stories are skipped
to the end unread.

rain touches the lonely,
rain is weaving  
the hearts
with dreams.

rain colors the lonely
arching in color
touching the sky.  

droplets  of water
through your window glass
tapping of comfort
of watering eyes.

So, yeah.
This would all have been a lot easier
If I didn't have the heart of a

Poet.
But I'll say this: Please love to learn,
So we can have *** with

Semicolons in as suggestive a
******* as they would imply. I know
I lost my innocence to an

Adjective, but didn't we all?
There's no room for jealousy in
Poetry,

We just rhyme and give the rhyme
Time to define, and aline with the
Rhythm to create a devine

Relaxationary artpiece to be consumed
By any reader who would find the
Time to entwine with a sentence

Or line, and use'em to maybe just
Describe the feeling of a hand
On the face of a man as myself, who

Has written so much of the things one
Can touch, that he looks at the world
As a man that a girl

Can tell: Look at me, and say all
You can see is the face of Eternity.
I am that man, with a pen in his hand,

And you could say it, but I surely  
Know it: My body's a worker's.
My soul is a poet's.