It would appear that my writer has temporarily (I hope) switched gears and is more inclined at this point to flood my cerebral with poetry - at least my version of it - I'm no Derek Walcott; so here goes - again.
Every strand of hair in place
For the unofficial first date
Alluring, taunting her potential mate
The make up is right
The jeans fit tight
She wants him, and will have him tonight
No words are spoken
The code still unbroken
Standing in silence on parade
Not once has she escaped his gaze
They disappear to where no one stares
Entangled now, passion heats the air
Curious touches, feverish blushes
Bodies perspire, their loins retire
The date is now over
With sated desire
They reappear to where no ones cares
In place remains every strand of hair
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Women have truly been the bane of my existence; I have a perpetual love hate relationship with them – the love part being highly fueled by ...
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Every weekend over the last few months has been somewhere between good - great; with some "fucking mad" sprinkled here and there. ... -
She pins my hands against the wall, I'm disarmed and weakened by desire. The nakedness of this well sculpted caramel goddess now on mine...
I'm sure when Derek started he had no clue he would be a nobel prize winner. Keep it up.
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