A poem about chastity.
Boldly pressed against the glass,
I’m on display. To be so chaste
Is not a sin. But feels so wrong.
No one should sing this lonesome song
Not of heartache, but of the hole
That’s deep inside this hollow soul.
I step across the dewey grass
And pass the young people at Mass.
They can’t be taught what I have learned,
That though I work hard, I’ve not earned
That loving touch, adoring eyes,
Kind words spoken might be lies.
Yet there he was, across the way,
But instincts held me, turned away.
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