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
Pingback: Burn It Down | TinderNews
Phew!
Superb.
AnElephant goes for a cold shower.
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So glad that it resonated… and smiling 🙂 Thank you!
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Poetry is my last place to know peace. I enjoyed the poem. Easy to get frustrated with poetry and story.
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So true! It is mostly a joy for me, sometimes though… long distance needs to be bridged by more than words. Thank you so much for reading 🙂
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Wow! What an explosion of raw passion!
I wrote a song lyric once in which I described frustration as “the big little disease”. Sounds like you’ve caught it.
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I have! That’s an excellent description, fortunately the symptoms are leading to some creative writing, smiles.
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