I want to be the potter and you the clay I want to work you with my hands My fingertips pressing now....against the keys the board stiff under the sensitive pads as I feel you press back against me imagining your lips soft wet tenderly pressing into me.
The clay soft and supple under my hands forming you, widening you again and again my muscles working against your stiffer aspects as we spin together wetting, re-wetting and smoothing my hands against your silky slick foundation strong and yet pliable seeking relief from standing strong and unyielding need.
You are a deeper container than I anticipated and I, a roaring flood threatening sweep you away.
but you hold... steady.
What Joy! What Relief!
we never expected to contain one another without harm! without fear!
Peaceful now our lines flow together the potter the clay the hand and the wheel we come together.
I love how we feel.
Flinging this out there without knowing if it is good or even qualifies as poetry. Who cares for merely good? If I feel it, receive it into me, and form that experience into words that I share, well, fine. We shall call it poetry. Who judges the one in the arena? No, not me. Self-conscious awareness kills the poet gasping for life inside of me. Click "Save". Post. Live. Breathe.