He works so hard though the week.

How can I wake him from his sleep?

My body wants him. My tongue to.

My mind is racing on what we will do.
Should I wake him from his sleep? Gently kissing him, starting with his cheek.

I'm awake I always am, but should I wake this hard working man?

We had fun. We played today.

Touching each other in wonderfully messy ways.

He led me down. He ate out.
It was all that love and lust should be about.

Lips were licked and necks bit, bodies one, and finger fun.

Ankle gripping, legs were spread.
Then he bent me over the bed.

So fulfilling and ******.

Sweating, panting.
*** perfumed room.
Held hands, hair pulling and ******* to.

It couldn't be better don't get me wrong.
But all this writing and he won't be sleeping long.

I said if I woke him I would start with a gentle kiss on his cheek, but being reminded.... That would be weak.

When he wakes he better be prepared, because all this passion Must be fed.

So I'll wake him, and I'll wake his friend.....

I can't wait to start again.

With insomnia I've been cursed, but sometimes...... I know things could be worse.

There is a place
in you
that needs a name
but you're an absolute beginner
at naming things.
Centred in this pathos, I've never known

whether to create stillness or bitter passion.
In this, there is a sacrifice,
something to see through to the end.

The openness I sometimes extract
can break me down.
Is it better
to find a way to say it?
Would it be better to hang for it

or to forget
how the fig is fertilised?
In its sweetness,
to forget
the distaste of undermining friendship.
I have stretched myself into the past.

I have stretched my body
to see the places it could end.
Vein bubbles
from where it started,
wet bloodgasps;
sorry smear of a poem

they write your name next to.
History repeats, all that's left;
neutrality at the cost of
a better passion,
and the count of
how many ribs you have and how many you've lost.

I abuse my fingers
and still expect them to carry me through.
There's always a way
to see trauma as something to crawl into.

An impossible silhouette
A candle's flame
A shadow without edges
The space between stars
                  The sky, the rain
                       The ocean between
                           Where I end
     w                           *And you begin
i                           t                           An imagination
          h                        y            ­      A dream
                    o                                 ­ A ghost finding peace
u                                                     ­ A star being born
                                 The wind, the wing   f
                           The currents between       o
                       Where you are                           r
                   And where I'll be                              e
                              ­                                                     v
                                                               ­                       e
                                        ­                                                 r

Thinking about the first poems I wrote
Taking my notebook, on a sunny day
A solitude park
Located in a small town Illinois

Feeling the sun on my back
As I scribble the words for a new poem
The melody of birds singing
A small breeze upon my face

Back in the days
Where I was writing for myself
Where I was the only one reading
The visualization of my own thoughts

Poetry is unique
Everyone imagines words a different way
Never let anyone define your skills
Write out your heart, poetry is made for you

Knowledge is butterflies in flight.
A doubting caterpillar needs
Faith in metamorphosis—
Without it, his future: horror.

Mother’s gone this way before.
Father left before his time.
The only hope: whispered instinct,
A still sound in the face of fear.

"Those who’ve gone before me," says he,
"Loved me and wanted good for me.
They willed me to believe in life
Beyond the metamorphosis."

The Path

Every day, eat of leaf. Chew. Rest.
Do not wander far from safety.
Heed these rules, follow the way,
Know that they were made from love.

Brother speaks of tall adventures,
Wonders waiting, joys untold.
"Why wait? Why fear? Why hope at all?
Come—enjoy the world right now!"

The Temptation

"Metamorphosis is a lie,"
He says. "A tale they tell to keep
Us from pleasure, from delight,
From tasting all the world can give."

"The dark cocoon is but a grave—
A trap, a tomb, an ending final.
Now is time to discover!
What tastes good is the true good."

Brother leaves the path behind,
Feasts on leaves forbidden, rich.
"Come!" he calls, "the map is false!
The world is wider than they claim."

Sister listens, follows after,
Seeking flavors never known.
She is gone—he hopes she thrives.
But she has not returned.

The Choice

Yet here, our friend, the doubting one,
Has chosen dreams and chosen hope.
He eats the leaves of toil and faith,
Nourishing body, heart, and soul.

He trusts the wisdom passed through time,
Holds firm to instinct’s ancient pull.
A gentle voice inside still whispers:
"This road leads to something more."

The Chrysalis

Doubt still lingers, fear still fights.
The chrysalis looms, dark and tight.
No control—nature compels.
He spins his silk in trembling trust.

Unfair, afraid, the world grows still.
The walls press close—no breath, no light.
He faces his end. He must choose:
To listen to the still, small voice.

"I am not mad. I am not lost.
There is more beyond this dark."

Silence. Darkness. Stillness.

The Fulfillment

And then—wings.

Butterflies are knowledge in flight.
At their end, faith is fulfilled.
They rise, they soar, they drink the nectar
Promised beyond the cocoon.

There's nothing more romantic
          in my eyes
        Than holding your hand
   And talking about our lives
          Because in my mind
The only thing better than the fantasy
        Is the intimacy I feel
  When it's just you and me
            *connecting