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Poem

Ripe, fresh, new and tender are names she should bear.
I am 17, she’s 16, both alone and innocent
in a partially illuminated room.
She possesses while seated,
expanding hips, lines of fleshy diversions,
small dark shadows and shades of secrecy- what a bodily landscape!

Crossed and well catered thighs, partly covered by a mini
the fatal bullets of lust are triggered by this tempting feminine shape.
Pumping emotions, just flowing like rolls of textiles
so lengthy that it cannot be measured by any tape.

Changing sitting position causes a flash of her underwear,
stimulating powerful focus like a longing ape.
And rapid chemistry-change from the signals of my sight,
produces great salivation already tasting like grape.

The heat of the moment fights morality and ego
with a telegram in the mind centered on rape.
But my reputation has already gone into oblivion
so what’s left of my honour, I’ll not scrape.

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