I tiptoe across the wooden floor avoiding all the creaks.
Moonlight streaming through open windows of a silent summer night,
casting shadows over rumpled sheets of a well-used king size bed.
I hear the water running in the bathroom across the hall,
grabbing clothing strewed around the room I move with ninja speed.
Hunting for the elusive pair of ******* I just can’t seem to find.
Forget it, time is almost running out, I need to leave before that door opens.
Rushing now I grab my stash and head for the front door,
lightly hopping, stealthily propping as I pull on piece by piece.
Last, my shoes, I grab as I unlock the front door,
grab my keys, leave the note and run out barefoot.
“It was fun, I had to run, see you again someday,”
get in my car, start the engine, drive, drive away.

Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****…
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!

A thousand words are in my soul,

a thousand words I can't control.

A thousand words I ache to say,

a thousand words I locked away.

A thousand words that are true,

a thousand words just for you.

A thousand words I can't deny,

a thousand words that make me cry.

A thousand words that lay in wait,

a thousand words a day too late.

A thousand words never said,

a thousand words from the dead.

When you fall in love you feel as if your heart is about to explode,

as if it can't take another moment in your chest.

You feel as if the world is more vivid, colours sharper, tastes sweeter,

anything is possible if you just try.

You feel as if your skin is tight, your heart racing, mouth dry,

waiting for a look or a touch.

The panic you feel is indescribable, incomprehensible,

because he is the One.

But when you see him with someone else,

it's as if your heart is about to shatter,

not able to withstand the constant tearing and breaking that has begun.

You feel as if darkness has surrounded your world, making you dumb,

blind and deaf,

nothing left, no sun.

You feel your body crumble, heart stop, mouth quiver,

on a heartbreaking, convulsing cry.

The pain you feel is unbearable, undeniable,

because he was the One.