My poetry’s bad and I blame it on you. How am I supposed to write like Sylvia Plath when all I have in my sight this dark velvet night is your caramel cream colored eyes.
You say put down the pen, hon’. Slip in your blood red laces, let’s go all your favorite places, let’s put some dollars on the races.
I’ll chase you, race you through the small town firelike twilight, you’re the highlight, darling, sippin’ on that sparkling white crystal wine.