Hola friends and competitors! Day 8/100 days of poetry. Enjoying the creative ride of deep expressions! In this poem, I’m become a pretty yet rude young lady won’t take it when a strange guy she just gave her number to begins to text her. Why did she give him her numbers then? Check the Part 1 poem for that. Enjoy!
There’s more brain in my fingertips than in any part of his skull,
He with false promises tries to stick a fake rose on a real heart,
I’m keeping him in the seenzone he’d barely make it to the friendzone,
No field for a player I’m but goalkeeping his texts like a sought for actress,
will infatuation bring cataracts and blame love for such blindness?
Wearing a vest to make sure there’s no sleeve to wear my heart to,
I let him water my dials with flowery words that land on a sahara of sentimental drought, Persevering or obnoxious yet to talk I don’t want to,
Iron bars built around smart women’s hearts like these ribs don’t ever suffice us,
resteeming my steemit post like it will ever make us compatible,
I sieve the players like I’m differentially permiable,
Eyes hinchhiking for my text to stop by but it never left the parking lot.
I give numbers and play my cards closer to my shoulder blades,
He texts with an infatuated heart and I stretch my hand to play with dark spades.
Sorry.
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{Image sources: gurl.com, istock.com respectively}
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