Christian Connor Schwantes

Mating Call

The problem with poems is how the soul seeps out.
Through the cracks of the consciousness,
Meditating on mastering the marvelous
Pondering perfection to perform to the other sex
Getting caught in drama of simple text
Looking ahead to contemplate what comes next
They’re just games, the poems we rearrange
Feelings felt by all, short and tall
Something you never meant to say

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