Poems about appeal

Can you
Give me a smile?
Not some evil rival
Gleam
I got the height
You'll never have
I own the class
You'll own
The trash
You wonder why
I have concerns

I feel you know our
Guilty pleasures from watching
You froth in your blouse.

You're so fucking great
You're good at everything you do
You can do anything you want
You're perfect in every way
I wish that everyone was just like you
I wish that I was just like you

She left a trail,
A meteor tail
Streamed
Behind her
Everywhere she went,
Her skirt hiked up.
An aura of flowers
Floated around her
Pretty face,
So fresh,
Blossoming.
She left no doubt
Of her sex appeal.
It was real,
Totally unreal,
Dreamy - like.

Mother is too far gone to start small. she is, as they say, pinpointing the outcome of a child blessed with field vision. I am not my father. my father is one of three men shortlisted for your sister's pregnancy by the cult viewership of a propaganda film that showed my brother's brain sticking out of a blanket. my father brings my brother like a knife to a knife fight as heaven and hell receive different parts of the same bomb. with another word for word, I have a woman on the inside who at mine will recover god from god's plan and your daughter's kite from a manhole.

Following her or her kin is death,
A promise of satisfaction and power,
Allure in her scent which no man knows not.

A winding trail downwards,
To summit back is a task olympic.
Lies and power she feeds to all men,
Until the breaking point, reached, lies his decision.

A continuance of relations would strip him of his name,
But re-emboss “hers” on top.
With “hers” comes pleasure and failure,
Intricately interwoven so failure lies beneath the shine of her promises.

Her trap's success now laid,
The old magic forces her to reveal the third option:
To chose not hers or his own but the name of creator.
With it comes grace, with it reprimanding, with it fullness.

When choosing this name he sees her facade falter,
Her caresses and lips, retrospectfully viewed reveal carcasses and absinthe.
Turning from the fruit and choosing the blood.
Covered in it, he is king.

He has power,
He has a name,
He has a future,
He is conqueror because of Him.

Look,
You can surely tell
That I feel the indignity of the situation
By the way I cannot meet your eye.
Yes, I look ridiculous,
But nature has called
And I must answer.
Arse to a tree,
Heels on the ground,
Vulnerable -
It's not the image
My wolfen ancestors
Would wish you to observe.

No, I'm no great fan
Of the substance I produce,
But you needn't wrinkle your nose -
It was you who led me here, after all,
And I'm sure yours is no sweeter.

I'll make you a deal:
You avert your eyes
While I take care of this
And I'll avert mine
And pretend not to notice
When you pick it up carefully in a bag
And carry it around.

Someone who is worthless has no right to act happy.
You are not gracing society with any sort of compensation, so why reap what others are sewing?
A stupid sack of nothing, a waste of oxygen. Can't keep a job, can't pay your one fucking bill. Just one. One! And you can't pay it.
Can't provide for anything you say you love, but, oh, what's this? You can crack jokes? Great! That'll put gas in the car.
You were a fucking accident for a reason, I guess.
Go cry to someone who gives a shit.