If our souls don’t ask for our skin to touch
Then we won’t get
Where we need to be
If our arms aren’t soft while our will stays strong
Then we won’t claim
Our identity

29 inches high

Do not forsake my skin there

And fail to suffer my intellect here

Share with me the musings of men’s minds

The notions that so keenly captivate their thoughts 

Yet never escape their lips 

Except to hide behind polite banter, as if I cannot sense 

Something’s just not-quite-right

If idealists and purists we be, I count on you

Set the truth free

Cover Me

Oh to be
The skin exposed 
Near cashmere coverings

Its defiant dare
Can draw the stare
And tempt the mind of things

But that which waits
Beneath the warmth
And silently bids “come”

Is the skin 
I wish to wear;
For whose dream-er I drum