A bit of free-verse poetry. Sometimes your Prince Charming doesn’t come riding in on a white stallion, guns blazed and eyes hazed with old money majesty. Sometimes he sits in the corner, operating a soundboard, hiding the lightning on his wrists with a camouflage hoodie. And sometimes the quiet ones turn out to be the loudest ones in spirit.

Sweaty fingertips

Sucking on your frozen lips

My hands on your swaying hips

Tasting all your heat


Christened jewelry

Your eyes are like a brewery

I’d get lost in your foolery

Make your lap my seat


You’re a special mess

A boy of true tenaciousness

Your hair is just a rabbit nest

One in which I’d roost


Golden coffee cream

They say that life’s not as it seems

If I’m awake, you’re my daydream

You’ve got me seduced



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