Off the cuff, heart on my sleeve to shake a gory meeting
to ad lib the flow, minus the liberal griefing
like Aunt Flo in porn with hungry lips that got people beefing
seething though somewhat pleasing, appeasing
teasing my unceasing thoughts upon our greeting
of a hand-shakes to my pulse that's beating.
Sit and write on what'll make me right, ever blessed
but I'm left without rest or breath, I guess I mean I'm breast bereft
a bloody open chest mixed with jest dedicated to whom I'm blindly obsessed
to who I don't know though I'll ever guess
with different ways to express the ways I'm possessed
with a guest who's the best part of me, and to that I'll always confess
my imagination is but a process towards a laugh of her smiling success.