she says she's the bible
and that's not libel.
her body is my church,
where my eyes do search.
her face is the bread,
absent of dread.
her lip are the wine
that kiss me, divine.
her moans are prayers
coming undone in layers.
her legs, a confession,
stunting my depression.
her bosoms, like mass
treating me with crass.
her hair flows in amen
like a river in yemen.
her back a holy land,
yet ever so grand.
her eyes, stained glass.
the madonna, a pass.
her smile, a crucifixion,
killing with friction.
her pleasure, candles,
lit by me to handle.
i cherish her, nervous,
like sunday service.
i don't need jesus
when i start to fuss.
when she's in my head,
i nail her to the bed.
YOU ARE READING
she likes the color yellow
Poetrymy soul in poem form. i'm not a good poet, but i've learned to be vulnerable.
