More than what you think it is.

So, I guess this will just be a whatever blog, there's no real structure. Sometimes I'll post things about my day or week, my frustrations or my joys, sometimes I'll post interesting articles, poems stories that I find in books or online, and sometimes I'll post some of my own poetry or stories, creative nonfiction or what have you.

This was my first attempt at a prose poem.

Damaged Goods

Young brown eyes stealing glances at the long straight neck, the fullness of the back, the firm brown skin. She’d never seen anything like him. Small, inexperienced palms caked in playdoh itched to feel, touch and her soft fingertips yearned to love him. Entering the cold room she found him on the floor begging her to hold him as she warmed his neck with her breast and pulled him up against her, her cheek against his head. Her face flushed as she pulled him between her legs her skirt hiking up, one Converse clad shoe on either side of him, her black tipped fingers caressed his neck while others ran down his body, ran down and felt how strong he was, how dark, how right. They want to see him too, they want to see him and play, but she won’t let them. Grimy little hands full of peanut butter and clay. He’ll be safe were he is, waiting for her touch for her eyes, especially at night. Night is when she leaves her bed, she leaves her other life for him, for his warmth, for his love, for all he’s said. Tears stream down stream down her face and onto his body and now she’ll have more time without them without their needs and wants without their constant nagging. Now she’ll have more time with him. He drives her to blood as the calloused hands experience more experience more watching the strings turn red with love turn red with life turn red with sacrifice watching the wood turn gray with use as her hands are etched with age and her eyes turn milky white as she strains to read the Prokofiev Symphonia Concertante for Cello, but her ears are still intact and they still hear his ragged breath struggling to find a way to fill up the empty room.

I guess the point of this poem was to go through her life, from a young child to an older woman and how the cello affected her life. Did I portray this at all? Gimme some feedback!