Friday, January 10, 2014

To Love A Serious Girl

I saw this today and I wanted to share. You see I'm a Serious Girl. I'm complicated and complex. And this fits me to a T. Happy Hour wasn't meant for me.

To Love A Serious Girl. {Poem}

Via on Jan 8, 2014
Photo Courtesy Margo Connor
Warning: naughty language ahead!

She ain’t casual.

She’s serious in the fanciest of ways.
She means every word she says as she prays.
She ain’t a liar, the opposite in fact.
She’s a truth sayer, a lie slayer.
She’ll find a way in, because love always does.
She’ll break you on purpose.
It’s okay to be nervous.

Her only demand?
Honesty without command.
She’ll fuck you with her questions
 you cum with the answers you didn’t know you had.

She’s complicated, she’s always been.
You’ll never unravel her.
Don’t try, you can’t win.
She’s smart, not to be confused with sly.
Live twisted in her mystery until the day you die.

Don’t take her to happy hour,
unless you want to be there till closing.
Happy hour was created for those other girls—
The girls who look like women
and the women who act like girls and seem frozen.

She’s neither of those.
You’ll know it immediately too,
 if she’ll look at you.
It’s in her eyes.
They’ll conquer you. 

She’ll seem shy.
She’s not, just careful.
She knows what she’s capable of—
So, if she looks at you,
She chooses you.
Be grateful.

You’ll feel sexy.
Sexier than you’ve ever felt,
Cause you just saw yourself in those eyes,
you melt.  
It’s hard to look away after that.
Virginity you thought you lost, way back. 

She’ll swallow you, like the whale to Jonah. 
You’ll disappear as if she owns ya.
Your cock, your mind, your heart—
it will seem
You’re safer than you’ve ever been.
She’ll spit you out whole in the end. 

No need to be afraid,
she isn’t, 
Of any of it cause she’s already lived it.
Like she’s been inside you too.

To love a serious girl is what you need.
A muse she is indeed.
She’ll ravage you with inspiration.
Her passion is suffocatin’.

You’ll gasp for understandin’ for the rest of your life,
Cause you know—
The casual ones don’t compare,
not to her and that stare.
She ain’t them, they ain’t her
And boy,
you seriously ain’t nothin’ without her.
By Rebecca Lammersen

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