fucking
2009-06-18 | 1:16 a.m.
the magic of poetry is sometimes in the ability to seemingly elevate some emotion or event into a higher realm of beauty. baseness into human essence, mistakes into life lessons, heart break into a divinely cruel force with a life and maliciousness of it's own.
and then there are things i find hard to express in a way to make them seem less crude. how do you reconstruct one's primal lust... coitus in ore? some longing to feel his flesh under my lips, my tongue and teeth. *for instance:
an ode to the feeling i have when i am suddenly aware that the object of my passion is indeed burdened with passion themselves
*this is just a roundabout way of naming a turning point of being turned on... is it any less valuable if i said simply this:
that as my breath quickens i notice a sign; full figured, taut, tight, masculine in every sense- the semblance of an erection through fabrics and shadows- only acts to incense my imagination and thus my lust, causing me to sigh a passionate prayer for a chance to have that godlike silhouette to slide into me. the truth is, my heart races and my panties moisten. and i must check this and wreck this.
a death of libido is in order
because i can't possibly hold out much longer. i've never wanted any one thing so much for so long in all my life.
is it the thing or the person or the both? i am the basest of poets
the very vilest of troubadours
i am everyone
work on your management skills
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