He can write about his ****
or his words making firm breast
with playful ******* hard.
He writes about turning you on
with the flick of the wrist.
About a few strokes, up and down,
helps a man
fall asleep.
He's penned **** lines about women,
his rooster has crowed in.
He has a way with words you see.
but those words stop at me.

He often looks at himself and says how
handsome and **** he is.
Doesn't say such things to me.
Can't take his eyes off the reflection
in a one way mirror.
He's in love and been in love
with his own cocky self
and women.

A real Hank Chinaski
with grit and front teeth being
knocked loose poetry.
I've asked him to write a **** poem about me
that he didn't have to share it with anyone else it could be our little secret.
disappointingly, the man who could write about chronic *******, or a perfect ***
couldn't pen one for me.
Here he can write about *****,
moans, being taken to ecstasy
between the thighs of one woman or another.
But not for me, the so called one he "loves"
not even in secret
or hitting the lobe of my ear.
He tells me he's shy...

I can't help but feel
awkward and not exactly what he wants
for his pen can stroke fire
take a woman's ******* off
just simply not for me.