I fear the way you love me:
That tender-touching kiss
Seducing me to nightly
Sink deep in your abyss.

Those smooth caresses take me
To places that I dread,
Your cunning fingers rouse me
To plan such lies ahead.

But while we writhe and tumble
In lust's hypnotic hold,
I fear the final stumble
That will see the truth unfold.

Can the reader tell the difference
Between a poem that is
Forced, or
One that naturally flows
From mind, to pen, to paper.
A challenge to the reader,
Which is this?
A well constructed masterpiece,
Or a ****** attempt to get back
Into my lost craft?
For all you know
This is my third draft.
Writers are the clowns of the written word.
Can you assume everything that's written is true,
Or do you, the reader, need to be skeptical?
Where did all the trust go?
Was there any trust to begin with?
So reader,
Do you trust me?