Here’s a poem I wrote many years ago that I wanted to share with you. It’s not an erotic piece, but I wanted to publish it on my blog anyways.

A girl kept dropping her pockets.
She couldn’t keep them attached
To the seam line of her corduroys
Olive-stained and soft, cheeky
Almost, as if her pants had a voice.
She held on tight, though,
To those dear pockets that tried
To pack a knapsack and run away.
Run away, from potential disaster,
From responsibility. The pockets don’t
Want to hold prized possessions of the girl’s.
What if a teeny-tiny hole of
Imperfection in the pocket lost
All that meant something to this girl’s heart?
The pockets would never be able to forgive
Themselves, for gravity pulls their spirits
Down, so that something will inevitably fall
Out of this girl’s pocket, such as Chester.
Chester was an acorn given, humorously
From a boy. He cared for
The acorn that day. But alas,
Two steps on a nut–even accidental–will crack it.
The boy slipped the broken nut into the departing girl’s
Pocket. The acorn held potential for the future.
Chester is filled with borrowed dreams
But remained broken himself.
How could he even live if he doesn’t have a face?
For faces are what represent lives.

 

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