God, I am so sick of poetry!

Sick of aching sex, empty bed and cramped fingers

Scrawling madly at all hours of the night, my insane desire

This pen will no longer suffice, it’s the poorest substitute

For my body wrapped round yours, rendered speechless

For our own language of fight, surrender, sweet release

For lips, tongues, hands writing love onto each others skin

I am sick of flowery exchanges wrote in pixels and bytes

Do I love to be your parchment, your journal, your muse

Does the ink you spill onto me ignite my desire like gasoline

It does. You do. No one can stir my blood in the way you do

This fire threatens, rages; is all-consuming, I cannot breathe

The tinder is gone to ash, cold and dead, this fire must be fed

Spare me words and pretty phrases and fantasies unrequited

My mind is filled with your naked lust and promises not fulfilled

If my body is your parchment, write me in sweat, spit and cum

It isn’t ink that I want, bind me, twist me, and spill for me

This is life not a book; I am not Rapunzel in her chaste tower

Here’s a match, bring the gasoline. I want to burn down this house

No more poetry!

~ kei

7 January 2014