Weaknesses
My weakness is sweets, but don’t get it twisted, no food is found to weaken me. But a sweet personality can, so can a sweet smile, or a sweet touch. Basically sweet people are like sweet candies  of different cultures, and I shall be a proud cultural culinary taste-tester, moving races like NASCAR in motion.
My weakness is money. The all mighty dollar isn’t so almighty to me, but what it can do is. I long for the materialistics of life that money can bring, and the attention it can get you from supermodel brides or low-key bed warmers. I like the feeling of being wanted and tolerated regardless of what I’d do and how I’d do it.
My weakness is power, for, if I held the power of a man’s life and spared him, he’d be loyal indefinitely, and that would be enough to satisfy my needs to feel loved. I’d have a friend who felt indebt to me, and that feeling of needing to accommodate would change my view on what was real and what wasn’t.
My weakness is attire, for you see, when I walk into a room, I want to draw the eyes of those watching, hateration rising in their veins and jealousy shown on there face. I want the Black haired beauty with the short red skirt and open-toed stilettoes with the dark purple toe nails and thick hips to come my way and think lustfully of me, is it a crime to desire such reactions?
My weakness is body, for I love a girl who can take care of herself. Long hair, manicured nails, teeth that aren’t begging to be drilled, it’s a weakness I have and can’t seem to fix. But then again, why would I desire to fix it? I’m not asking for perfect like a conceited rejectionist, or wanting more than what I can give like I was lying to myself, I want someone who can keep up with themselves before even attempting to keep up with someone else.
My weakness is *** appeal, because whenever she bites her lip and looks in my eyes, I can see rockets shooting through her glass lenses and aiming at me. But once I smile back, determined face, cute features and as much appeal as I can muster, explosions happen in her body that causes goosebumps to pepper her flesh like shrapnel in a war-zone.
My weakness is skin to skin, after all, it’s my right to want to be loved, why not demonstrate it by holding hands? Why not live past the edge and on the tip of existence like birds on a powerline? I am careful enough and she’d be loving enough that no vibes of failing would even cross our way.

The hardfaced queen of misadventure
Dressed in a robe of insecurity
Seated on a throne of infidels
Ornate with misled hearts of a thousand men.

The resenting mirror of insidious lies
Confessed all the ugly truth
Of all those swollen eyes and wrinkled cheeks
Concealed behind a facade of smiles.

The incongruous pair of unfortunate heels
Tells a thousand stories of her exploit
In worn out stilettoes of faded red
By the futile resistance of those frozen feet.

Playing god on the hellbound streets
Her thighs bewitching weak and drunken hearts
In a fiery throng of mutilation
For a decisive battle that shall claim no victor.

Although I have no glass stilettoes
Have the height to reach with my toes.
Despite, I never did chores,
I am the lion, that roar at fears.

Although I wasn't cursed to sleep years
To have a king to kiss my curses away,
I want to be a rat at least,
Just like in the tales.

Although I don't have the beautiful body,
I want just one and nobody else
like I appear to be those elves
None can see, yet can feel.

She walks down streets while love goes in and out of fashion
an invisible halo above her head wearing size six inch red stilettoes
the smallest of mini skirts shorter than all the sixties put together
and sings punk rock Christmas carols while checking out her lipstick in the mirror
she is your sister, potential mother, and the best friend someone ever had
will pray for you and dream and make wishes
share all she has in the way of fashion tips out of magazines
and she strides down pavements confidently while love goes in and out of fashion.

Walking in tap shoes on tile floors is an
excellent metaphor for life
if you’ve never attempted then you’re
unaware how thrilling and absolutely
freeing tap shoes can make you feel
suddenly your entire body is an instrument
the world is your audience
you don’t need rhythm
those who know nothing about the art
will still be enthralled by the sounds
coming from your feet
But when you walk on tiles you have to be careful
one wrong move
one miniscule shift in balance and you’ll be on the
floor accompanied by the lovely sound of metal
scarping polished tile akin to nails on a chalkboard.
On tiles you walk with care
Slipping so easily
But those sounds
The beautiful clicks as you walk
They radiate so much more power than
stilettoes on a quiet church floor.
Next time it rains listen to the drops dancing on the roof.
They perform for you.

    --They still sit in my closet