It isn't real sugar, honey. No one tells the truth anymore;
That was an old fad. Silly people use organic things, tell the truth, pretend to be real.
I can not enjoy the things I once did, but I lie and say I do.
Cherry red and blond like a *****. I am a liar, just like her
A "she-player" will cheat. I just can't think and put on a face that everyone knows.
No one knows the real story, the biography I have yet to write, but
Somehow they know the me that I don't know.
The me who's hands shake and hair used to be short enough to spike.
But I will grow it out. I don't see he reason to keep it
The way it is. Or maybe I will do half and half.
With my long portion hanging over my shoulder and other shaved by my ear;
Sip my coffee and write more poems that won't go far at all.
While others write about their love an prayers I write about being lost. About being real.
About being the only one I hope he will ever love. Ever touch the way he does.
In the dark or in the light, either way it is magic and
The shadows are attempted to that energy. They feed.
Explicit, I know, they like it, dessert for them.
But there are times I would rather just bask in the moment, hear their
Dead and separated stomachs growl, waiting for moans and
Crashing waves to wash up on their feet.
Dark, I know, but it is the way it is.
Hot, I know, and that is how I like it.
But I just ignore them. You are far more important in the experiments I want to conduct.
Sweet and salty: sweat rolling down your neck has never been sexier.
And I wonder... Can you be so excited that it hurts?
See I am not innocent. I have ideas that you will never imagine. But if you do?
I am always hungry for a sugary daydream. How wicked and filthy can you be?

I wonder. Can you feed me? I crave this
Nonstop.