And the old ways are not satisfactory enough,
You feel like wanting to marry a petite girl.
A beautiful girl she should be who gives you a feeling pleasurable,
You start dreaming of her imparting satisfaction immeasurable,
Imagine her digging nails into your back as deeper you seep.
Not away from marriage you keep your desires ever,
And the imagination takes the better of your youth,
The volcano accumulates lava & erupts blissfully.

Life's a smoking gun
It's either hit or miss.
Whether your wrong or right
The scent of your intention
Always sticks around
For a minute or two....

Missing you tastes like death,
if it had a flavour.
Lately I've been getting bad breath,
and my conscience is unstable.
I haven't been able to find a solution,
put a conclusion  to this sadness,
this madness the distance has instilled
inside me-
It hurts.
It burns.
Forces my brain to take a wrong turn,
churning up the bad thoughts
like mouthwash-
more like dirt.
Over and over-
until the mouthwash starts stinging
my gums and the dirt begins to rot my teeth.
Missing you might taste like death, however
I don't know how death tastes;
**I haven't tried it yet.