(Poem) The Cheater

-Her soaked and steamy time has left his stomach to the knots.

-Her insides are happily invaded while his rot.


-She has decided,

 the rush is more than worth his heart being divided.


-His only option now: Worry ‘til his mind is  mush.

-But, how could his cowardly persona not be an invitation for her to live the life of the plush?


-She’s indulging in drinks, so exotic.

-The lights of pink, purple, and blue flicker those sultry glimpses of her hips, so erotic.


-That night’s rest, he’s needing for the morning shift.

-For her use, she bends, winds, and grinds, making her tight dress briefly lift.


-While groping and grinding her girlfriend’s skirt,

 she’s hypnotic and coaxing the cliché, ballers, bums, and meat heads to flirt.


-Her eyes met with the guy, smelling of expensive cologne but made of dirt.

-She perched upon his lap, bouncing to bass, at a tempo sweeter than dessert.


-Of late night crimes, he bares no proof.

-It’s no excuse, though, for he needed hardly any to know her love is a spoof.


-To avoid the break, he’s lied to, more than anyone, by himself.

-While she is raced to that guy’s place,
 at streaking pace, where her friend’ll pass out, in the next room with his wing man.
-This girl is unfastening his buttons, while her shirt’s draped on the shelf. 

-Ironically enough, it’s not her that’s of the most blame.

-It’s his pitiful soul, that fits the pathetic role,  which puts his dignity to shame.


-He cowers from the word “alone.”

-For so long, he was the king.
-He desires no life without the throne.


-One can’t deny her trickery–making a man feel reasonable suspicions are paranoia and low self-esteem.

-Now, that’s true misery.


-His kind are the future generations, warped by macho madness that was fed to us straight for the teat.

-They’re quick to fight a man, over the woman’s folly rather than to realize, they need no woman for them to be complete.


-Who could say how long his illness will endure?

-But, him trying to pretend she’s not vigorously gyrating her hips, atop the next man, isn’t the cure.

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