I write of women I will never meet, I sing to their beauty of so sweet. Without them there in my mind I am incomplete, I write of women I will never meet.
I dream of things locked inside my head. I cry for those I know are dead, their ghosts haunt my nights like memories I want to forget instead since I dream dreams locked inside my head.
Her skin is ebony or amber light, her touch is soft/hard in the still of the night, her hair is thick thin it is my delight, she's almost in focus yet still out of sight
Her voice trickles down into my ears
her songs is tempting lasting so many
years, she is the composite of all my fears
I long for her embrace and her tears.
I write of women I will never meet,
I compose rhymes that will lay at their
feet, Without them in my lines I am
devoid as a blank paper sheet, my ink
dried, tears cried for the women I will
never meet.
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