The perfect lip

is over-lined just a bit.

The lipstick shines,

it flirts, it hints.

The glitter sparkles and glints.

She wears it with confidence,

she struts and sways her hips.

The boys take notice,

but only the men really get it.

That’s all she wears,

the rest of her face left bare.

Her skin like porcelain,

dressed head-to-toe in Hood By Air.

Walking casually down the street,

walking to her headphone’s beat.

Double-takes, dogs in heat.

Ignore the catcalls, no stress, don’t freak.

She stands unshaken, defiant.

The pavement sizzles, she towers, giant.

This is her runway, stomp it out, vibrant.

No pushing and shoving, stop hating, stop tryin’.

“DSL” they call them,

“What’s that? You’re internet?”

She licks them snidely, real wet.

And it’s what comes out of them you won’t so easily forget.

Words of thunder, heavy with conviction.
Her passionate argument - your new addiction.

You play Devil’s Advocate to arouse her to contradict them.

You derive joy from getting her permission.

Lips spin tricks, show wit, fight grit
get bit, talk shit, kiss kiss, get on with it.

Commodify all you want, you’ll soon regret

silencing the voice from which you worship.