Her

I lay here, thinking of her,
My stomach tight, my vision blurred.
She's constantly on my mind
Her face, her lips, and even her behind.
She's beautiful, enticing, and smart;
But does she know that she has my heart?
Everywhere I look, I see her face
People I don't know seem like they have her grace.
I sigh, I weep,
I can hardly sleep.
So in prose lacking eloquence;
I write about her elegantness.
I call people by her name;
And, despite that, I have no shame.
I could spend hours looking into her eyes
Her lips, her hair, all of her makes me sigh.
I can see myself holding her close
For her, I would forsake all without remorse.
In her presence I don't know what to say:
My heart beats fast, my knees become clay.
So with this pen and this paper
I write my thoughts about her.
No longer does my sleep come easy.
And being without her makes me queasy.
Her skin is the finest Chineese silk
And it has the pale whitness of milk.
My words cannot ever do justice to her;
Her beauty is beyond words, beyond more than a simple purr.
So with that being said this poem comes to a close,
And with thoughts of her I end my lousy prose.

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