she moves

with the sinuous grace of bacon frying

erratic and seeming to shrink as the music sizzles a back drop

like a panther on a tree limb

subtle and sleek and looking like nature’s perfection

with the over exaggerated style of a drunken monk

seemingly stumbling but every shift in weight is calculated

back and forth in time in stilettos that seem precariously high

her calves solid and her rippling thighs enough to make men jump in front of a speeding bus to catch another glimpse

her shoulders back

breasts defying gravity as they bounce to bass even as she stands still

she moves like heartache at forty five revolutions per minute

love me

like being stabbed in the chest with an icicle

leaving no trace of a crime committed

she needs to move on

out of my head though

away from this static inducing need

there is a time when put up or shut up is a necessity

and now is then

long past then if i’m being honest

and honest is all i can be when it comes to her

this wreckless muse that awakens something in my center and makes me want to scream from the rooftops that she is my everything

she doesn’t know my name

i’ve memorized every curve of her

pencilled in imperfections in the hopes she becomes lesser somehow

and she only becomes more

i would crawl across barbed wire into a river of piranhas if it got me nearer to her

it won’t

i’m just a vague someone in a sea of adoring fans

another voice in the chorus

she has enough fawning fanatics seeking more than the pieces she deigns to share

her every word feels designed to intoxicate me

calls out and makes me want more

but they aren’t for me

if i’ve learned anything in the world of poetic injustice it is that

ladies will have an ocean of fans waiting with bated breath for every line they write

doesn’t matter if it is brilliant or trash

the teeming hordes of horny men will flock in hopes that for once a real girl will speak to them

it’s even worse if they have talent

can shear your soul into a billion tiny pieces with every masterful piece they write

she moves like every eye is on her

and they should be

she damn well deserves it

she writes like the devil and it makes my inner demon howl

she looks like an angel and the demon howls louder still

but i’m as real to her

as she is to the world

just another clumsy metaphor from the mind of the poet illterate

the fool that wishes he were more

that she would move closer and closer

smell the wildflowers in her hair

see the devil in her eyes

i might not be amazing

but i could love her like no other

as she moves away

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