Self run (Riot)

I walk
6 feet tall
All of me

(I have been told I lead with my ******, it is unintentionally ****** forward if I do. My head is usually in the clouds. I’m assuming my ***** is too. Once I think about it . .. I’m away to something else. Figuratively and literally. I guess If my ****** leads, I soon follow.)

All of me
5 foot 9
And 6 feet tall

My perfume
Hubris
But at most I’m self aware
At least
I’m oblivious

It wafts around
At 6 feet

High

(I have been told I look like Debbie Harry, I prefer Chrissy Hynde, but Debbie Harry will do. Especially on those one shoe Sunday morning afters. Even then I douse myself  O! DAY! Perfumed. Pride and all of its bilingual manifestations)

At
6 feet tall
I’ll take you to Church
O! Faced

(A man once once winked at me and said; Jennifer I’m going to take you to church. He meant a good ****. Or intended a phenomenal one.. regardless, I took him. I usually do. Jennifer the pew.)

Straight up
No inclination
6 feet tall

Baller

Ah, the fallacy
in talk of tree limbs
and fragments of the broken-apart.

                     Those scars opened a rare window
                     below the cloud tops
                     and into her room,
                     where a new dress of fallen leaves
                     hung in her wardrobe,
                     fleshing out her understanding
                     of how that blemish
                     lingered long enough for
                     her own intentions,
                     hidden behind the frown,
                     to surface.

The myth in her eyes
wishing they could say,
"Might we share this fall together?"