Muffin Tops.

I see you doing your thang.

All over these Cold MN Streets.

Because the world knows we like to eat.

Enjoy all sorts of treats. From sweets to savory meats.

The possibities are endless. And our potential,

For greatness is limited less. Even though the slim.

At times like to hate.

On how we are made or how we made ourselves?

How much of that juice body did you create?

And what was from birth?  We have no control over our skin.

Color or even the texture of our hair

So heavy on your mind always chickened out, the size

Of someone else’s backside

 Assuming that she will be desperate. Enough

To let your ride

Those big thighs

You won’t divide or

Separate like South African apartheid

You won’t be asked to come inside

Instead be treated like the hater that you are.

With a face full of scars!

That you carry on the inside.

As they rub and callous your heart.

Creating emptiness all in the middle.

No sweet, sticky, cream, Filling

Of sugar or jam

Just dried overcooked muffins

Like the old fashioned cornbread

Grandma used to make

She loved that stuff, with butter milk.

That was her shit.

He squeezes her muffin tops.

As the springs pop.

While the headboard is held.

In a quiet place.

While she formed.

A sex face.

To cause his blood to elevate.

Passed the simmering of luke warm water.

To a full on boil.

That overflows out of her muffin cups.

Cake rises higher. Oh yummy good stuff.

How much baker’s yeast?

Will you share?  To feed a beast?

To create sweet, sticky, creamy, muffin tops to eat?

Copyright: 2010. WLL