Who Am I Fooling? Poem by Bill Cantrell

My heart?
It belongs not to poetry
She is a tigress,
Sexy and intoxicating
Once under the spell of her touch,
I cast my fate to the wind,
Willing to stand in the cold rain
Her bed?
Sheets of opium,
With arms of enticement,
Promising pleasures to satiate any desire
Then pushing us off the edge,
To see us hit the floor
Her reputation?
A woman of the night,
That you would not bring home to mother
She is the bird,
Laying eggs in another's nest,
For them to raise,
Then taking all credit
She does not cook,
But devours you
Faithful to no one
Yet, knows how to dress,
Always wearing something new,
And that is her true appeal
She knows our weaknesses,
Toys with our emotions,
Oh what an ultimate tease!
But she offers us release,
And that is enough
I both hate and love her,
Despise and admire
Yet,
My heart?
It belongs not to poetry