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What's she like
When people ask me question about her, I generally say she's like me.
A shy and sly soul engaged with memory but shining her in made glee.
I can feel the warmth of her hands when I clasp mine together in recalling.
You would think I am pondering very hard but in reality I am stalling.
I can already hear her voice calling me, so sweet it energizes her words.
And once it reaches my ears my heart reaches higher than flighing birds.
Darker than coffee indeed but her lips are more flavorful than tea.
If it weren't for her pretty eyes guiding me then I probably woudn't see.
Slender bodied beauty but thicker where it counts.
I give her all credits, never will she be denounced.
It doesn't bother me that she's so shy, doesn't bother me she's so timid.
For she's obviously made an impression; this is her poem meaning my love is still unfinished.
Can he love indeed, he loves in more ways than many will ever know.
He walks the winding road to earth, ajourney ever so slow.
A life once of total chaos, but to see her makes it okay.
For she makes him lose so many words that he digs for things to say.
It must be real no dream's this sweet, no taboo sweeter than she.
A king of poetry, god meets godess, so she is my dancing queen.
No one knows how we feel, that we both can agree, for my heart is a jewel in her hand.
She's steady amazing me, her poem is proof, no line of mine was ever so grand.
What is love? That is the question and I think I found the answer.
No numbers to calculate, no analytical theories, I just gaze at my beautiful dancer.
What she's given me is past intimacy, a feeling I refuse to fight.
And once more I'm at a loss for describing what she's like.