I think I'm in love with her,
Her inward beauty is my precursor.
The way she dances to the drum lines of my heart,
The way she smoothes out my roughest parts,
The way she giggles and wiggles her intricate
riddle about the middle the finger and rock paper scissors are sure winners.
She's a giver. She's a liver.
She would give her liver just to be among the quiver of my lips and I would give mine for hers.
She's a gem among many pearls, she's the great wonder of many worlds, she's the sweetness among many swirls and songs, she's so right for me how could she possibly be wrong?
This woman, that this dream dreams about, where is she?
Is she en route? Is she plagued by beauty or doubt?
Does she have a gratitude attitude words from her mouth?
She does not need your platitudes in order for you to see there is no rudeness in the altitude of her attitude.
She's not a proud prude but her pride is shrewd.
She shuns the lewd but basks on the walls of the louvre.
She's a mood.
When will this moot be my tangible loot?
When will she pluck my soot from it's root?
When will she no longer be a figment but skin to my skin like a pigment?
When will she answer all the questions to my statement?
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