Pandering thought, meander through my essence.
Set my skin on fire, flush me in both flesh,
and genitalia; but redeeming release remains
improbable if not teetering on impossible.
Soundlessly, or so I would like to believe. I
push back the carnal, making desire much more
rabid, and I repeat idioms simply to distract.
"Victimless!" I'm reminded by the operatic
symphony of memories playing in perfect pitch,
on time each grouping strokes my psyche
with feathery simplicity.
Aching, throbbing words so frenetic, to
annunciate them would make this fantastic
pain I seethe for incredibly real.
Maybe I'd rather save the pent up ferocity
for divine intent, but the beast is hungry, and
my resolve grows weary.
Weathering impulse for me, is torture beyond
obscene. Heated breath would be fingertips
upon this urge filled flesh, would be pursed lips
against the nape of my neck, would be fingernails
digging in with malicious intent.
Fervent this pen isn't enough fluid, but watching
it move across these blue lines allows me to
imagine tracing the elegant hairs along her stomach.
All of which without a word muttered.
"The silence is perfect."
How do you not hear the cacophony, the almost
fiendish delicate devil begging for freedom, if not
a chance to lick her leg.
Would it make her toes curl?
Would it make my back ache in effort?
Only thoughts now, my God where is the
silence!?
"The silence you ask? Sweet release."
When it abates I sorrowfully await it again.
Held within its grasp the moments seem cruel.
Once gone, like an addict, I want it more
and more.
Is this a mind-gasm? A well orchestrated plot
to humanize my animalistic thoughts?
I wish for the perfect ending, but happiness
is just as brutal.
Now I reside in my weakening resolve,
coaching it up, if not myself.
I've never stood this close before, I can almost
hear her thinking,
of me, maybe?
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:04 AM UTC
Pandering thought, meander through my essence.
Set my skin on fire, flush me in both flesh,
and genitalia; but redeeming release remains
improbable if not teetering on impossible.
Soundlessly, or so I would like to believe. I
push back the carnal, making desire much more
rabid, and I repeat idioms simply to distract.
"Victimless!" I'm reminded by the operatic
symphony of memories playing in perfect pitch,
on time each grouping strokes my psyche
with feathery simplicity.
Aching, throbbing words so frenetic, to
annunciate them would make this fantastic
pain I seethe for incredibly real.
Maybe I'd rather save the pent up ferocity
for divine intent, but the beast is hungry, and
my resolve grows weary.
Weathering impulse for me, is torture beyond
obscene. Heated breath would be fingertips
upon this urge filled flesh, would be pursed lips
against the nape of my neck, would be fingernails
digging in with malicious intent.
Fervent this pen isn't enough fluid, but watching
it move across these blue lines allows me to
imagine tracing the elegant hairs along her stomach.
All of which without a word muttered.
"The silence is perfect."
How do you not hear the cacophony, the almost
fiendish delicate devil begging for freedom, if not
a chance to lick her leg.
Would it make her toes curl?
Would it make my back ache in effort?
Only thoughts now, my God where is the
silence!?
"The silence you ask? Sweet release."
When it abates I sorrowfully await it again.
Held within its grasp the moments seem cruel.
Once gone, like an addict, I want it more
and more.
Is this a mind-gasm? A well orchestrated plot
to humanize my animalistic thoughts?
I wish for the perfect ending, but happiness
is just as brutal.
Now I reside in my weakening resolve,
coaching it up, if not myself.
I've never stood this close before, I can almost
hear her thinking,
of me, maybe?
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