I Play With My Words
I play with my words,
like I play with your tongue,
always dabbling and jogging
to find the right spot to swallow up
the hot words that I put down
and you humbly take.
With my pen dripping out ink on paper
it collides with humble genius and prideful downfall
and just making love, good and bad at the same time,
but what is it, that makes me write?
Is it the cat looking out of the window,
a dog barking at a fly,
a fly barking at a dog?
Is it the school children holding hands in parks,
or the elder lovers kissing on city-street benches?
Could it be love its self,
with its sleepy mumbles of, "I love you"
in silent moonlight night.
Or, could it just be you,
with your hair hung low,
and lips wet and glazed,
with power in your voice
and nervousness in your womanhood
you inspire me to play with my words,
like I do with you, as if
we were children, curious of our private chambers.
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