Who am I?

robert-ross Poems

A man sits on a chair, centered to those around, aware of them, glancing briefly waiting. He developed a taste, this bag however only teased his receptors, and gave more burn than ease. Tea bagging is a fine art, to which is paid a king's ransom; the shaft, though Godly, was not bound for glory... how he wanted! There was an exchange of stories, striking similarities; he had been joined by others, relocated, and told to start over. Mystics popped the cap, dismissing gender... how they wanted! A man sat in a bar; no knowledge of modern era, ceiling had tired tiles, a friend sang to a new lover, and two in love danced to karaoke, in sync to their drunken state, how he loved her! The party was lavish; gay youth empowered, a welcome meat market of pulsing power, a man sat on the couch... watching, two ladies necked beside him, together they danced to sultry tones, eyes scanning, heads turned, smiles, how he wanted.