Blank Verse.
I only ever write poems about people I want to ****.
Fingeratively speaking anyway.
(Jesus my puns are bad.)
I’ve had some semblance of balance in my life.
Up to this point.
There’s a joint in her hand and she looks like the sea.
Her eyes glazed over like sunsets.
I’ve got a beer in my fist.
First of many, and I mainly want to kiss her.
Caress her, I hardly even want to **** her.
Creep down her spine with my lips and cradle her neck with my fingertips.
She’s got that hair that holds itself up.
Like it’s keeping her up.
Like her hair’s a hot air
Balloon, is that rude?