trouble with Love is there is no supreme peace in knowing that the itchin’ in your heart your soul
and what’s left of your natural mind
won't go when you want to let go

. . .it jus' keeps you hanging on-o-on.

trouble with Love is once it’s planted
In the fertile soggy bottom loam of your desires,
the pressure of lookin' 4 THE 1

that Mr. Good ‘Nuff 4 now, takes
a perennial root inside the secret spots
sprouting passion with multiple eyes
like a freshly unearth’d yam,

and once Love figures you're

ready, then get ready to be

consumed. . .

trouble with love is that it will scrub you peel

and pucker you, as your oven-roast'd skin

is split right down the center
of your plump fleshy core

and once that happens,

Love causes you to see those

reflections on how your life used to be
as your love child releases the pressure

and that steamy aroma

lingers beneath your nose,

pops your lid
butters you up,
goes down deep inside and
takes bite after savory bite,
and deliciously finishes you off

then you just open up real wide
as love takes you up the ladder to the roof,

and licks you clean
like a cow’s tongue on a pile of rock salt

. . .slow and easy

you end up not worth much more than a
seal-a-meal, waitin' to be thawed in the

microwave that you bought at a second hand store

but that should be no surprise
because baby, baby, sweet baby,
don't you know you can’t hurry Love ? ? ?

© 2004 by cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserved.