I told her I wrote her a poem
And I asked permission
Respectfully
If I could share with her
And recite my art
Like the great romantics of old
Like the true lovers of days gone by
And she gave me a glance
A knowing look
A short stare of unfettered understanding
She is familiar with the craft
She was aware fully
of the unfettered truth
I see she sees
what it really is
She completely comprehends
She made clear
With a moments piercing of her gorgeous and innocent glare
With the total possession
of all the sex she held to herself
She let me know
That she knows
With complete crystal clarity
The very essence of the art
The true nature of poetry
She has been astute to decipher
with pure animal intuition
She is wildly aware
She just gets it
She let me know in total silence
With full integrity
she communicated concisely
In the expression of her eyes
She sees
Poetry is nothing but
Ornate
Manipulative
Tourettes
A vulgar addiction
An affliction of the horny
A creeping desire
The perverted endeavor
Of an entitled fool
Poetry? Ha!
I want her so
Because she knows
And she owes nothing
To my poems