So much green tea

Leaves a mark

On the old oak tree
In the courtyard

To be seen —
not as an object of desire,  
but as another human being.

To be seen—
for what she is made of,
for what strengths she carries within
and
not for what she covers her body with.

To be admired
not for her beautiful body
but for the beauty within.

Her voice to be heard
and not her screams.

To have dignity —
in life and in death.

To have self-respect.


Is it too much to ask for?

by Geof - Mischief-Maker

I’m a proud little rainbow, a switchboard of spice,
With a compass that swings both naughty and nice.
I flirt with the genders like bees with bouquet,
And I bottom with gusto, in my own tender way.

I’m the velvet in rituals, the lace in the lore,
The one who says “please” while they’re mopping the floor.
I’m the sub with a schedule, the bottom with grace,
Who’ll write you a sonnet while tied in your place.

I’ve got charm in my toolkit, consent in my creed,
And a penchant for poetry (plus a few extra needs).
I’m the bisexual bard with a blush and a grin,
Who’ll giggle through ******* and ask where to begin.

So cheers to the bottoms, the soft and the bold,
To the ones who wear harnesses, glitter, and gold.
We’re the heart of the party, the soul of the scene,
With a crown made of kisses and a throne made of sheen.

by Geof – Mischief-Maker

I’m the hand with intention, the gaze with a glow,
The one who says “breathe” when the rhythm is slow.
I’m the top with a toolkit of velvet and care,
Who’ll whisper your safeword and braid your hair.

I’m the compass of holding, the anchor, the tease,
The one who brings aftercare wrapped in a breeze.
I’m the dom with a diary, the switch with a plan,
Who’ll kiss every bruise like a gentleman can.

I’ve got swagger in satin, and kindness in kink,
A mind that’s ******, and sharper than you think.
I’m the queer-hearted captain with roses and rope,
Who’ll lift you with laughter and **** up your hope.

So cheers to the tops, the fierce and the sweet,
To the ones who bring structure, surrender, and heat.
We’re the pulse of the ritual, the beat in the blend,
With a crown made of care and a touch that can mend.

Stealing my thoughts
are much more difficult
than the theft of my heart
Yes my solitude
shocked the thief
into remission
A second chance
are meant to last.

You will meet
people
in life who
love to keep score.
"I've done this for you, so
you should do that for me."
They keep a mental ledger.
They're pathetic.
Nothing is ever done out of
the goodness of their heart.
Their mind clicks with
records and accounts.
They are slaves to the
almighty penny.
Nothing you do will
ever
count anyway.
You're always in
the red.