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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Saturday, 11 January 2014



There be no perfect justice,
to define treads of your beauty.
If we sat in a court house,
to debate what makes-
you poetically undefined,
gavel would not pound.

One lawyer would say
"your hips don't lie,"
yet as you lay on the bed,
small as graphite pencil,
only God can define
what beauty I look at,
so that would be a lie...

Another lawyer would say,
"your derriere redefines round"
as apples sit at the back of its lounge.
He would say it "lofty and curvy
like the engine on a Ducati."
yet these are labels inscribed on you,
the true you is where we are bound...

Another one would say,
"your pear like milky way,
is one that makes man,
envious of baby.
It is a work of art,
sitting on your chest,
one that some of 'you'
have seized to taste."

"As man tastes your luscious skin,"
another lawyer would say,
"no matter the hue, or shade,
pore by pore with greed.
He sucks as if trying to dig-
to find out what lies within."

Yet the skin which holds you-
is only wrapper and your hair ribbon.

Ayeh, when I stare deep into your;
B.M.W eyes, I see true you.
I see the story of your heart,
and the burden bore by the soul of a-

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