first impressions

I said I'd write a poem. Yet, the thoughts that previously meandered frivolously through my mind have abandoned me, only to climb using my peers, up the hierachal literary ladder. My shoes not as expensive, you can tell by how the soles are transparent, I cross my legs and the dusty brown underbelly of my foot is revealed. Laziness and sheer disinterest call for your eyes to crawl up unshaven, ashen brown legs, and the tweet your read once about how ladies should be hairless except for that atop their heads comes to mind. You quickly disregard it for it's the last thing you want shimmy-shaking before you as you avert my eyes and grasp my hand to shake. What's to happen when dreams stop distinguishing themselves from reality. Tell me, then what.