I am guilty with lust, it consumes me, draws me and burns my *****
The want is a need that shames my mind, defience to what is pure
this base desire, this physical necessity, I hate that I need it
but succumb to its embrace as he lies next to me, deep in slumber
drifting alone, all too comfortable to be disturbed

My mind plays out fantasies, wrapping myself around him
I know he would even covet my embrace, snuggle close to me
My arms would wrap around him, my legs entwine his
pressing against him, sneak my hand along him, stroke
crafty fingers' speak my fire
tease his dreams to mirror my need

My body yearns, my ache is real, my lips are soft, my need drips
I can feel myself, the warmth of my lion's mouth,
its hunger, its desire to lunge, to grab deep, to ******
to feel his body next to mine, the heat of his desire
to ride, not timid, defient against him
that driving, penetrated, disgusting
urge just to ****

I have my needs, he even encourages, pleads
even complains, he knows my heart
Cannnot, I say, cannot and no
I cannot succumb this is too primative
Too much just flesh, too much

A pleasure that must be denied, not for me to savor
my animal must be leashed, controlled
I will lay here next to him, so close and far
My broken lusting heart, denied once more
It is his fault; men to blame
They punish us all
He sleeps through my pain

Some days
I am a mess
Consisting of red lipstick
And nicotine teeth
Of black dress
Drenched in whiskey
Alcohol fallen from shaking hands
Crumpled white bedsheets that
Barely cover skin
Not knowing how to keep anything warm
Only knowing
How to look good against glow from morning sun
Sometimes
I am disarray
Most times
I am out of place
And even further out of body
But I
Am not looking to be cleaned up
I do not want someone
Who finds my disaster pretty
When it is anything but
I do not need someone
To try and mend something
That was broken to begin with
That has always been chaos
I am
Perfectly content
With the clutter
And I
Do not need
Fixing.

I see you wave and smile at me
And
my heart skips a beat
And
I think to myself
*Well ****

Here I lie in wake, alone to my thoughts--centered attention on nothingness for so long that it emerges with a startling gasp that stirs the calm waters, that breaks the crippling silence, that disarms my presumptions, that startles the birds from their peace in wing and gives movement to flight in the cold dark out beyond my shortsightedness of the here and now.

A ripple--that's all it was--that prompted my upward condition and seized my focus.

Subtle enough, yet I could not mistake it as London could not pass through a single sweet cool night without a shaky blast off in the distance that likewise stirred the children from their innocent dreams as I have strayed from my ever present seams and still now...

My meaningless nothing may faulter at the so vastly more important  everythingness around me; yet only my perception of these little ripple kisses that stir my soul and give rise to new movement and dance upon this elliptical routine that puzzles me in brick by bricked and stone by ****** can surely pave the path to tomorrow's promise of the again and the trials of what if in such again.

Perhaps no other than I could decipher the value of these thoughts; the merit they hold on my person; and the uselessness they possess on yours.

But that's fine with me...for expression left unexpressed, thoughts left unthought, refractive pulses left unreflected...these play things forgotten in a misspent youth dwindling in the pool of memory and the pull of forgotten woe, surely are worse than the best nightmare on the darkest, most desolate night of lonely sailing in those powerful little ripples that crash on my seawalls and smooth out my wayward projections.

I may push back. I may fight the waves, as futilely as an effort I know it to be. Or I may just accept this future as sure of a past it will ever already be...let that undertow carry me out to sea and swim with the birds and fly with the fish as the Sun whispered he intended for me.

But I may just come right back up again, as breathless and weak as I did before and surely shall again (remaining). For with every breath I surface to obtain, the effort for relief stirs new pains of concentration that only a breathless living may disarm to my liking.

I may not think clearly then and than so more, but my effort to keep my thoughts straight spills attempts out across the floor, and with each further step I further my chances of a clear tower of perceptive accomplishment to stand atop and gaze. Mind my incongruitous follies and shame my liking the name. Am I, I am, the confused and forebane.

Perhaps now, I've infected you? Confused, aren't we? And confused we shall remain. For nothing is so utterly disarming as the mixing of thoughts with no filter to gain. As this ground falls out from under you, just remember the rule for walking: one foot in front of the other for too long and you find yourself right back where you began.

Pick a new direction to gone...I'll meet you there some day, maybe.