I wanted to write a poem full of imagery.
But I drew a blank because
all I could think about was you.
I struggled with lines looking for rhymes.
What was this old man to do?
I looked at my file of worn out phrases.
They could not provide me a clue.
I reviewed my past life, my triumph and trials,
and still, I kept thinking of you.
Your lips were are as red as cherries.
With kisses that intoxicate like wine.
And when you wear red, my defense is dead.
What is left, is my rambling mind.
I wanted to tell you my feelings.
But I was afraid you would take it as jest.
Though you coo and you squeal when the moment gets real
the thing I remember the best,
Is when you get near and whisper in my ear.
"Sitting on your lap reminds me of going to a proctologist."
