Blonde Bombshell

Just written in five minutes at like 4 in the morning one night, because my friends and I were talking about how I'm quite the ditzy bombshell late at night. The poem quickly detoured into the late night's of an alcoholic.

Quick to find

late night


Up she pops

quick to drop

the words, the laughs,

the faces.

She'll say something vile,

but quickly smile,

crying 'no offense'

in her sly way.

Misplaced letters

from lurching hands.

Indications of intoxication.

But one could not state that,

for her caps lock crusade would begin,

waging wars against those who insulted her in passing,

now are brought back to light,

through the amber glass of a bottle.

Insistence that confusion merely stems

from the digital red glowing of the clock,

but when this has become habit,

it's not hard to recognize.

And although you love her,

and she'll always have her ways,

she'll never end her blonde bombshell days.

The End

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