Sixteen
Two eyes, two arms,
Two legs, ten fingers,
But without any cares,
And the mind of a swinger,
The constant desire, the lust—
To share such an intimate moment,
As though a bag of potato chips.
To be busted,
To be used,
To be known by so many,
For doing little for so few.
To be sitting on the bus,
Just sharing a quaint conversation,
But at the next stop,
Apparently, there were invitations.
To have only two hands,
But to desire more than eight,
For the simple fact of how our economy’s downfall,
Has lead me to such a fate.
As though I was born to be a whore,
Scantily clad,
Yet to remain studious.
As though I was raised to be adored,
“An outstanding lad,
Will prosper from such studies.”
How I should’ve gotten use to those comments,
The kudos, the thought—
As though I weren’t a child,
But a well-fashioned, overachieving young twat.
To be waiting for the ten o’clock feature,
Thought to be the only one on a Tuesday at the theater,
Yet somehow I was wooed from my minor ambitions,
And sought impoverished comfort, forswearing the conditions.
How hands were just hands,
Fumbling with the button of pants,
Or how the floor was a drawer,
For the clothing we had mislaid,
And for that moment,
how life was a daybreak four-poster—secure though unmade.
How a kiss was a kiss,
In the manner that you kissed back,
And how the minute imperfections did spread on my skin.
How I did comprehend I was paid for such acts,
how I forgot for a second,
but then remembered again,
And in that brief moment how I had fully lived.
Like a glass of fresh orange,
As the sun begins to rise,
And to be held in toned arms,
To be whispered sweet lies.
Before the day even starts,
And before the alarm breaks through,
This compassionate silence,
That for a moment I did share with you.
How I will never forget the one that got away,
His controlled voice and the soft tone,
How when he spoke in my ear,
I could feel how much I cared throughout my bones,
And though how I cared little about getting paid,
The tender held his sent,
And I still have it to this day.
Two legs, ten fingers,
But without any cares,
And the mind of a swinger,
The constant desire, the lust—
To share such an intimate moment,
As though a bag of potato chips.
To be busted,
To be used,
To be known by so many,
For doing little for so few.
To be sitting on the bus,
Just sharing a quaint conversation,
But at the next stop,
Apparently, there were invitations.
To have only two hands,
But to desire more than eight,
For the simple fact of how our economy’s downfall,
Has lead me to such a fate.
As though I was born to be a whore,
Scantily clad,
Yet to remain studious.
As though I was raised to be adored,
“An outstanding lad,
Will prosper from such studies.”
How I should’ve gotten use to those comments,
The kudos, the thought—
As though I weren’t a child,
But a well-fashioned, overachieving young twat.
To be waiting for the ten o’clock feature,
Thought to be the only one on a Tuesday at the theater,
Yet somehow I was wooed from my minor ambitions,
And sought impoverished comfort, forswearing the conditions.
How hands were just hands,
Fumbling with the button of pants,
Or how the floor was a drawer,
For the clothing we had mislaid,
And for that moment,
how life was a daybreak four-poster—secure though unmade.
How a kiss was a kiss,
In the manner that you kissed back,
And how the minute imperfections did spread on my skin.
How I did comprehend I was paid for such acts,
how I forgot for a second,
but then remembered again,
And in that brief moment how I had fully lived.
Like a glass of fresh orange,
As the sun begins to rise,
And to be held in toned arms,
To be whispered sweet lies.
Before the day even starts,
And before the alarm breaks through,
This compassionate silence,
That for a moment I did share with you.
How I will never forget the one that got away,
His controlled voice and the soft tone,
How when he spoke in my ear,
I could feel how much I cared throughout my bones,
And though how I cared little about getting paid,
The tender held his sent,
And I still have it to this day.