After Shanna Compton
I asked her for a bar
one sailed off without friendship
she meowed like a pussy
bringing in a workgroup can be explosive.
Not full of kumbaya and understanding
As politely as the fragrance, my hand found fingers to her touching.
We all desire the things that vocally touch
in the way that leaves us more or less explosive.
No one really enters past just being a friend.
Never easy being called a pussy
So I spend my days at a bar
Drinking down cups of understanding with those who seemingly understand.
Shortly after they met they reached an understanding.
The anger was still there even after losing touch.
Too many drinks at the bar
left tempers not too shy of explosive.
Not biting his tongue for fear of looking like a pussy,
the truth remained … they were no longer friends.
I only wanted to be her friend;
I thought we had an understanding.
But she called one night, said, “You fucking pussy,
you think I could touch
you, feeling nothing? The feeling is explosive
Meet me at the bar.”
We went to a bar,
met up with some friends.
The music at the bar was explosive;
it was loud but calming — we could understand
it. Some of the words were touch-
ing and my thoughts led me to wanting pussy.
At the moment I didn’t care for her love, just her pussy.
She sought out some stranger at the bar.
Good touch, bad. Bad touch —
Getting numbers was for making friends.
Every part of her body, I understand.
So I made her explode.
I have some explosive pussy.
You have to touch to understand.
I left the bar; I’ll be my own friend.