There is million ways
how I could tell you
that I want to feel your body,
your heat.
I could rely on my cold heart
or my dirty words.
My razor sharp mouth
cutting through the thicket of your petty concerns.
How high is the chance to get sick
if you share needles once?
I could depend on my fun side
jaming with yours.
Let my crazy roam free and
hope that you pick it up as yours.
Give it a name and feed it.
I could let my words speak for me
or my actions pave me a way,
past your thoughts
in your underwear.
Pick you flowers, challenge you mentally
or just be a monstrous cunt to everyone else.
I could let my status
lure you back in my flat.
Read you poems not meant for you.
And talk about feelings
so fake; I myself don’t look through.
Or I could just leave you
not try
and just be me.
Thinking of and for myself
Alone, but at least not a salesman
for a weak and faulty dust sucker.
John D.Dexter 