She births poetry like a universe of constellations.
she parts her lips like the hips of the woman about to bring magic into this world, the labour of her poetry is never easy, never smooth, difficult to stomach, but the words she births from her belly carry life like breath, like the fruit of the earth.
There is a beautiful pain to them.
Her poetry was like good ***,
She parted her lips like the legs of a woman about to begin the most primitive form of Love, giving as much as she could take. Sometimes she would ride the poetry, reverse cowgirling it to the ****** of her ecstasy and other times, it would ride her,
Leaving its essence inside her.
At one time,
She parted her lips like the mouth of a woman who is about to blow, your mind.
Never for her pleasure, it did nothing for her.
Her satisfaction lied solely in yours,
it was selfless, unselfish, an act of true altruism.
She broke for people, who loved people but did not love her.
But the first time,
She was the poetry, being birthed from the lips of the cradle of woman kind, the first time she was the magic, the life, taking her first breath, her first wisp of earth,
And it smelt like words that bleed, that change, that make love, that celebrate, that birth other words.
The first time she was the poetry, so the poetry became her.