I had wrote a serenade,
And sang it at a whisper,
Then drank a glass of lemonade,
With sour lips I kissed her.
She had no idea
what this contact meant to me,
And likely she would never,
She was pretty as could be.
She'd had her share of kisses,
From boys so tall and sure,
She showed them off like riches,
But this kiss was new to her.
It carried such great passion,
and yet this made her confused,
It felt a lot like sharing,
instead of being used.
So, sour kisses stained with tears
From all my lonely crying years,
Will challenge all her future fears,
When we remake what's happened here.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
Eauts. That first stanza is literally one the most perfect stanzas I've ever read. The sort of stanza that nobody could ever change a single letter of. It's simple; it's direct; it's engaging; it's full of familiar and unusual imagery; AND it rhymes. It is the utter peak of poeticism. I salute you.
ReplyDeleteI know you're a busy man, but have you considered putting a book of poems together? Your stuff is way more palatable and interesting than anything modern I've read. Seriously.