After much unsureness and eraser marks in my cranium i've finally found a closing more suitable for this poem. It was loved in the original state- but i was never pleased with the ending (the first edition of this poem is posted somewhere in this blog). so after a bit of poetic plastic surgery it is now presentable (in my eyes at least). and some liked the original better, i guess you can compare for yourself. but as a poet (i think i can call myself that for a fleeting moment) i think you must except nothing is ever perfect. so this is my poem that has seemingly perfect tits but a lopsided left nipple. (perhaps i should have deleted that last sentence...)
Life is in fact balloons and butterflies:
My prince came roaring through
totting balloons and butterflies
in a pastel pink '87 Volvo,
blaring his emo love tunes while headbanging,
losing control and crashing
into my chest.
Like the too tight hairband on my wrist,
he was turning me a deep shade of purple.
I would awake to blinking red lights
emanating from a digital face
much reminding me of those brown eyelashes
that would blink out Morse codes
in response to my restlessly tapping digits.
Our messages were composed
of Nat King Cole slang
and disgustingly sentimental pet names.
We would dance in the style of Fred and Ginger
to scratched records
and dusty yardsale mixed tapes,
stepping on one another's toes
without pardons or concessions.
I treasured the adolescent August
and Spring was months away.
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