Touching head,
Like the wanted kiss,
Is not a knife,
But an emptying bomb,
For that is how it ends.
A beautiful thought,
A beautiful woman,
A beautiful sight,
Where was he?
All the physical,
Meaning not,
Slammed all the way,
On the right-brain.
Too far it was,
Too much meaning for,
Anything of,
The left-brain.
All a dream,
And nothing else,
And everything more,
It all was.
Hearing words,
From her inner self,
And seeing her,
Beside him close.
He lay there,
Only Breathing,
And heart beating,
I guess.
She moved,
In and on,
Her hands below,
His trunk lines.
Pulling away his covered,
She played and made,
Something naught,
Something worse.
Came he did,
Satisfied she thought,
She made of him,
No.
Romanticism,
In all true love,
Was not there,
Though was with him.
She thought she made,
The whole alive,
When she should have asked,
Where it even was.
In doing so,
Her truly loving,
Woman-heart,
Robbed him.
In cuming hard,
As always supposed,
It wasn't even like,
Going number one.
Nothing felt,
No tired or exhilarated state,
No total body contraction,
Like it never happened.
In his drunken love state,
Ripped it becomes,
A shed tear perhaps,
Robbed.
Instead of being,
With him and mind,
The whole was played,
Unknowingly and wrongly.
This wholesome bomb,
Inside him takes,
The love thoughts,
Of a related beauty.
For his entire sake,
If you think you have a whole,
You don't,
For when you actually do,
You know it.
