The women of the world May swoon At the sight of ripped chests, Arms, And a statuesque frame Molded after a porcelain David. Others interests are sparked (Along with that sparkle in the eye) At the sight of a man Nice at ball-handling or Possessing the stamina of a Tri-athlete of sorts; A superman donned to dodge bullets and Leap tall buildings. But I. Stagger and stumble over curbsides Over He That can take vowels, nouns, and stanzas And compose them into pure fire. Spit a flame into my ear Instead of a pick-up line. My eyes will not follow the direction Of a 5K runner or a tall, unblemished figure… Nothing turns my head like He who can Run circles around me with The prose that He scribes. My heart palpitates for the master of the 16, The king of the manuscript, And the ambassador of words and thoughts. Not the muscular, wife-beater-wearing novice Who will sport the shades, grip the mic, Ransack the words, But will say absolutely nothing. No, not him… But He. Who wears justice as a belt And truth as a cloak. I will stand and applaud for him, nod along to his beat, study his verses and commit them to memory, apply the Truth I feel to my every footstep. (c) B.Shelton. All rights reserved.