"attentions" poems
We are who we are
We love who love us
We love who hate us
We love our Gender
Call us Girls
Call us women
Call us Ladies
We are TransWomen
Stop being confused
Stop being surprised
Stop calling us He or It
We hate that pronoun
We are females we as others
We deserve our rights like others
We deserve love and affection
We deserve Respect like others
We are tired of your nicknames
"Is a he or a she", "what is this?"
It hurts please stop stop stop!
We are fine ladies! Full stop !
You scared our fellow ladies
They are crying in closet
They are lonely in families
Because we are Transgenders!
Stop abusing my brothers
They men and so proud to be
Don't be confused by what you see
A transMan is a powerful Man!
Respect them now and forever
Stop calling them ladies or things
They are men **** and classy
They are men always and forever
See us slaying down town
We are lovely and attractive
We know who we are friends
You can't change us Sit down!
Don't be confused by Breast
That the **** chest of our brother!
He is strong enough to be proud
We love our bodies and gender
We won't hide because you hate us
The more you see us feeling proud
The better you understand us
We are Proud Transgenders!
We ladies need our Freedom
Government think about us
All women are equal in the country
We need all care and attentions!
Stop calling us Monsters
We are human beings
We deserve our Rights
We are citizens like others!
This ain't western culture
This ain't Sodoma and Gomollah
This is the gender of Us
We are Proud Transgender people!
Pastors stop that hate preach
That hell you need us to go in
That Sodoma you always sing
All were from Those Bibles
If you accuse all LGBTI people
To bring back ***** or Gomollah
First remember that bible you read
Was brought by Evangelists
We had gods and goddesses
Africa knew no White God
We had Love and respect
Read , reread and Rereread!
Love wins and will win
You are taking us nowhere
We are here to stay and slay
Ourselves Genger our Pride
We are done by your hate
Is our time to shine bright!
You gonna hate us today
And you will love us later!
TransWomen are women
TransMen are Strong men
Transgender is a Gender
Respect us we hurt no one!
"Transgender Right is Human right
TransWomen are women too
TransMen are men as well
We claim no war but our Freedom
We claim no hate but our Respect"
Poet : Skylar G Peter
Poem: we Are Proud Transgender people
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
I wish you were here
On this rainy night.
Wrapped in a warm blanket,
My head on your shoulder;
Sitting close and holding hands,
A hot cup of coffee in the other.
Cool air
playing with your moist hair
A beautiful fragrance
Drifting all about your essence
Talking of small things
Just to hear your voice
Drowning in each others attentions
Our hearts rejoice
Lovingly planted kisses
Affectionate little smiles
Endearing little giggles
My whole world in your eyes
I wish you were here
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 4:26 PM UTC
Stop describing your terrible ****** encounters
I know you've had other women since I ended things with you
You're acting like you don't have magazines stashed under your bed
What, when I was with you your hand was your secret lover
And now it's not enough?
I'm so cold. I just want the affirmation of another soul's proximity
Is anyone out there?
The spinning feeling increases its tempo
The awful silence crescendos
Bring me back, bring me back
I miss the Saturday night I spent on mushrooms.
Everything was alright in the world
Anonymous carefree the world was ablaze
I convinced myself I was a fire spirit and you were a deer
I'm not addicted: I only tried it once.
All I want is a cigarette and to go back to sleep.
The world will turn without me
Your heart will be cold either way
Why and I vying for your attentions?
I tell myself I'm too antisocial
Until I have asked every single last one of my faceless friends to come get me
I guess it's alright to take some time for yourself
Is this a manifestation of grief or depression?
Is anyone out there?
I prefer the company of strangers to those who I've already become disillusioned with
Will anyone feel my gentle tugging and lend me a hand?
Just a coffee
Just a smoke
Just a walk through the warming days
Spring cleaning
I've successfully ignored your texts for long enough
I think I'll sleep with you
Not because I think that's all I'm good for.
Is it really "being used" if you're aware of it?
Am I not using you as well?
I can't decide if this will turn out well.
To you: Help.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
12-17-2013
The constant chatter
lowly, gathering attentions
apprehension--that's the matter
thoughts are shattered
the noise: rushing, crushing, bustling in
and flushing out all rationale
growing louder, shouting over morale
and one who can no
control it, cowers, trying hard not to
a persevering temperament, one
who silences the sounds of increasing volume
madness boomerangs again;
pain returns once again.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
I am with you
here in this place
scanning with cool
and radiant eyes
Causing silver haired women
to pantomime
The Thing Thats Wrong With Us:
their heads shake
and their thumbs waggle in the air
like worms.
Our thumbs irk them,
patience wearing
thin as their lips.
They are so sad for us,
for our murderous stupidity.
They know
what is wrong:
because our empty carcasses
litter their living rooms
the busses they ride
the classes they teach
slumped
in the seats where we left them.
Heidegger said
that attention creates access to the world,
And we've crept away to the edge
dangling our attentions over the inviting precipice
like the sorcerer's apprentice
unsure
of how it all takes place
but certain
of it’s awesome power.
The well overflows
and we are swept away
as the women look on
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
*
~for Bill T. Jones~
two poets, laureates both,
on the nature of hunger, they discourse,
in temple, where sacrificing is to living arts
I was there, hungry in every aspect,
seeking wisdom of the hungering nature of human.
examine the word, hunger,
hardly a rolling off the tongue mellifluous.
you growl it from the gut, in gowned resplendent ugliness,
go ahead, try it, it’s coarse and powerful insistent.
awoken empty but for the hunger, hungover from
dancing words and imagery not mine, now mine,
maddeningly demanding my dutiful attentions,
as if hunger was the master, me, obedient pupil.
the clean white slate the IPad re-presents repeatedly,
insulted that I have yet to crayon color it with the coherence
of hunger-exhaled words, dismissive that I am but an also-ran,
my village of lexical too unsophisticated,
the page addressed yet unplanned,
Apple white
is the color of the
starving artist.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
the spanish seaside town
as the sun sets
is golden to the eye
and warm to the soul
full of life
and beauty
did not seek this place
but fate sought it for me
she came out of the west
and i was captured the moment i beheld her
spanish goddess
her smile captivates
exquisite true beauty
in the glow of her laugh
with that one small gesture
she is pure sunshine
she is tender and true love
she heals the heart
and frees the soul
spanish goddess
her dark eyes a cage
of smouldering passions
and gentle fires of deep and true loves
spanish goddess
her smile
haunts me
such beauty cannot be contained in my heart
such absolute and mesmerizing perfection
cannot be beheld in such a small place
as one mans simple soul
spanish goddess
i am riven by you and nursed back by you
i am torn apart and mended by you
i am created and destroyed
all in the single moment i am graced by the sweet embrace
of even a mere glance with the touch of a smile of yours
spanish goddess
please please do not let me awaken
from this beautiful dream
let me be forever here
in spanish seaside town
at the setting of the sun
in the perfection of your attentions and kindness
with your beauty and warmth
that is heaven
in every sense of the word
spanish goddess
you have forever changed me
from a lost soul
without hope or direction
to the captain of my future
forever to seek safe harbor
in a spanish seaside town
forever more to thirst for your smile
for your laugh
for you
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
During the war, I was in China.
Every night we blew the world to hell.
The sky was purple and yellow
like his favorite shirt.
I was in India once
on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
There were soldiers,
some women with parasols.
A dead body floated by
going in the opposite direction.
My son likes this story
and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.
When he was twelve,
there was an accident.
He almost went blind.
For three weeks he lay in the hospital,
his eyes bandaged.
He did not like visitors,
but if they came
he'd silently hold their hand as they talked.
Small attentions
are all he requires.
Tell him you never saw anyone
so adept
at parallel parking.
Still, your life will not be easy.
Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
Nothing matches. And what's the turtle shell
doing there, or the map of the moon,
or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart?
You must understand --
he doesn't see the world clearly.
Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!"
when it was only a blue cloud of insects
lifting from the trees.
But he's a good boy.
He likes to kiss
and be kissed.
I remember mornings
he would wake me, stroking my whiskers
and kissing my hand.
He'll tell you -- and it's true --
he prefers the green of your eyes
to all the green life
of heaven and earth.
2.6k
sensing you, i stood myself tall
i stayed and i grew
ten thousand tiny legs or more—
each root foot set upon your shoulders
lifted me among constellation stars
home i had never left,
not you
thank you ancestors thank you
for your neighborly attentions
sound vibrations spiral strung --
God’s first word, first and second
generation sun, a greening earth,
until everywhere shaping intelligence
this my body finally here
steady and true as weighed stone,
unjudging love is
what you have come to teach me
that i could choose to die to fear
and die to death itself
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
Many years ago from now
a gentleman I knew
his predilections were precise
and, to me, quite new.
He was intent on teaching
deliberate and firm
and from his experience
I began to learn.
So here arose my interest
it's him I have to thank
for taking me in hand so well
and giving me The Spank.
He wasn't ever lazy
never dealt out on a whim
he made me work to earn each stroke
I was obsessed with him.
I put in many hours
hatching careful plans
of how to win the best attentions
from this authoritative man.
I'd knock a stack of books
off the corner of his desk
and he'd lean back in his chair and say
"come here and lift your dress".
And I'd comply so gladly
already feeling hot
my bottom was presented
and his hand knew just the spot.
Sometimes he'd give me just the one
on a precipice I'd stay
longing for the three or four
I'd get later that day.
I remember him with fondness
he taught me many useful things
but most of all I thank him
for every little sting.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
My idea of a good night is staying in
And technology serves as my friend
With a glass of wine or bottle of brew in my hand
Talking to a list of favorable foes on the web
Where conversations boarder between flirty and scholarly lines
And typed dialogues lead way to theoretical thoughts and inspirational designs
Pondering ignites a spark that surges in my mind
I’ll begin to research the fast array of thoughts that run through my brain
Fixated on scientific data, predicted trends and worldly traits
Eventually it’s not enough for my thought
I’ll try to fight the inevitable feeling that starts to form in my gut
Leading way to the breeding ground for butterflies
Factual documents begin to get lost in the shuffle
As my attentions now caught by an excerpt or rousing photo
New tabs are opened over the old
And I always find myself ending at the same place
Looking up poems about love and images elapsed from past days
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Your design,
So divine,
Can't even imagine.
This is a fatal attraction,
And I'm under the influence,
Got my *** drive out of control.
Lust, passion, feeling infatuated,
Attentions that your body implore....
Hot, intense, feelings over-saturated,
I'm guessing you’re ready for me to explore?
Don't need a GPS,
Cause I don't mind getting lost,
Just need your voice to guide me,
How far can I go?
I know that you're not sleeping,
But I'll make you feel as if you're dreaming...
Let's create temporary forever,
Bring our bodies together,
Fall into alignment,
Don't deny it.
This is what your body desires...
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
It’s the damndest thing when attentions focused
on one thing beget the focus of another
Like the rooster crowing the sunlight
in the cold, ungrateful weather,
My eyes scan the ups and downs
of those digital stand-ins for those I’ve known
Seeing mistakes, my own and in others,
Seeing perfection, in other’s imperfect successes,
wantonly rubbed in my eyes
As I springboard from the travails of those
with whom I may never vocalize my adoration
I drop out of the air of a life far from mine,
I see mention of a passed on spirit
Who I truly adored,
no digital fakery of half-true fables necessary
to express my love for the ideals implanted in me
by such a tongue so supplicant to the truths in that vast ether
where I used to swim in the light,
never thinking of the dark climes below.
What choice do I have on an accidental evening like tonight?
I no longer can mask disinterest for other’s soaring narratives
when my true care has been discovered,
been pried away from that dark corner of the airborne pool so ethereal.
My care, my pride have been torn asunder,
by a mere errant glance on a mere sideways mention
Of a massive, earthly idol, who, if only for a stanza of years
held my full gaze with hopeful smiles and ecstatic promise
for bright futures now gone into grey pastures.
I lay here an imposter in authentic skin
if only for the sight of words on screens,
with scant meaning in between.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
Sometimes it's all about the ***
though mostly it isn't.
Sometimes it's about the play,
about enjoying the effect
that I have on another
or, less so recently,
about seeking to please
and enjoying whatever is given.
Sometimes it's about wanting
to hold and be held in return
to feel the love
and the connection
and the closeness
and that warmth inside.
Sometimes play isn't enough
when it ignites my desire
and frustration strains the pleasure
sometimes holding someone
isn't enough either
when the warmth turns to heat.
So sometimes it becomes
all about the ***
and yet that's so elusive
when my attentions are unwanted
or I find my desire
impossible to express.
Sometimes I feel in need
yet nobody picks that up
none come forward to ask
to writhe with me, entwined
to seek mutual fulfillment
of a shared lust.
Sometimes it's not about the ***
because that's not on the menu.
Cynthia Pauline Jones, Aug 2013
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
Desperate these words,
Chasing fleeting shadow,
Echoes flocking like birds
Amid myriad distortions,
The unquiet mind's sorrow.
In birth chosen for sweetness,
A bid for attentions of one
Soon fade mere whispers,
Weak and defeated tomorrow,
Exhaled anguish unheard.
Written lines would have best
Been spoken in ears years ago
'Ere time flowed its course,
When ever softer verse
Might shimmer
Then a symphony,
Maybe able
To drown life's other sounds
Like Mozart, loud as one can turn up.
Would there be any remedy
Which relieves burdens of memory...
The music of dulcet strings
Does dull stings, still only temporary;
And since abandoned,
Thoughts of more ultimate things.
So still, some poet's quill
Crafts dreams into sparrows,
Sets fluttering free
Their unnatural wings
To sing a song of regret,
Share madness with the winds.
Jan 14, 2010
Jan 14, 2010 at 3:22 PM UTC
the polished hand of admirers heralding a new poem
they have come so often to rub their eyes on your ink-stained page
leaving behind papercuts of emotion with which they grieve
for the words you spread on their sweaty palms
the polished hand of admirers...
wet with anticipation of the latest beachside laughing clown
he is a walking breathing cataclysm written for her comforts
written in adoration's delight and true loves of her tender hand
she lay in amongst your pages on the bedspread
like a spilled wine **** to the tongue of sensibility
like a spilled wine that intoxicates and leaves
watch her swaying hips fade away into darkness
she will bounce and glide on another man's stripper pole
if you fail to call her back...
the polished hand of admirers heralding your waking thought
muted cheers as your pen makes wicked strokes on empty page
like a dancing blade carving your wooden words
till they sing like beauties breath on cold still air
till she is your warmth wrapped so delicately in your twisted bedsheets
she mutters a cough as she puts flame to cigarette
and smiles at your attentions
she is a living poem
that you write ink and page
the polished hand of admirers will never see
how pure simple ***** girl is so intoxicating
how lush and enticing her gyrating beneath you really is
the polished hand of admirers like you go to bed and sleep
while your dreams are of her dancing swift and sweet
theirs are the dreams of pens cutting on page
like a dancing blade carving wooden words
© 2016 mark john junor all rights reserved
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka* once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions
But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy
What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow
I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC
Poem of prosy
I am so sorry
to relay this story
of ending glory
knowing
your suspenseful stories
await my attentions.
Your suspenseful showy
purposefulness I feel,
I do!
I read and write and breathe
and cry!
Just as you.
I slay dragons daily,
carry princesses away,
I live in castles
like you!
I walk every word wearily,
or crawl away , but always go forward.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
in the grass lingering
subtle. new life, seeks.
life over distractions
will you buy attentions? for me?
i could try and persuade interjections
to interject anomalies. false.
in decay, blooming
death. closer than your mother.
unaware of the scythe
speechless.
despite selection
phrasing perpetually
simply put, arrogance
tests my limits. carefully.
picking out life from death
a masterful game. monotonous.
does the truth betray your senses?
do your eyes smell?
deliverance. ignorance for innocents.
there are millions. billions.
unstoppable.
watch my back. we’ll both die.
a rip in sound. feel the throat churn.
erratic vibrations disorient the world
they cannot understand us.
poisoned perception of the native mind
in struggle. in war.
recovering and failing the same.
thieving the motions. motionless.
all to achieve deplorable fame
dreadful.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Devil you’re ice out cold.
Sending mix signals, you like to put on a show.
Master of emotions, poison victims image when they’re low.
Examine your attentions on different people under quality control.
Mmm, you like to test my worth, asking for God’s permission just to see if I’ll sin again.
You grew from a mighty titan angel to this fallen illusion magician.
Aroused from the thrill of being king of the underworld like your soul is free.
I question your position there cause hell is really beneath me.
Not joking, who you think you provoking?
I mean you think you slick for trying to keep my wounds open.
I mean I’m forever God’s vessel, never your black token.
Those wicked rituals your followers steady be coding.
Things my soul refuse to soak in.
Don’t need any validation, I’m not trying to live perfect.
And if you think I want that, I promise you I don’t need it.
Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray my soul to rest and peace,
to the heavens.
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 1:51 AM UTC
Shall I compare thee to a cup of tea?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
Your voice winds do shake my tranquillity,
And fair attentions are too hard to get.
Sometimes too hot your critical glare shines,
And often is your vicious tongue untrimmed;
And every sip of love in time declines,
With swift return to lover's lounge much dimmed.
Your sharp heat shall never cool to comfort,
And all sugar in the world won't sweeten,
The bitter beating of your blackened heart;
Nor shall the greed of your soul be beaten.
As long as men can drink a cup of tea,
So long lives my hate and disgust for thee.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
Tamla Motown,
my soccer team Tottenham
for so many sweet memories,
my old girlfriend Stella ... I know
I should have Stella,
I know,
tigers,
brown bears & the lowly centipede,
Charlie Chaplin, that old ****** son of a gun,
Laurel & Hardy, just because ...
Tarkovsky movies ... Toshiro Mifune,
anything with custard,
apple pie,
fresh bread,
Indian folks for the way they
shake their heads for yes,
Indian folks for their god
that charming Ganesh,
books,
Sci-fi movies ... lots of them anyway,
children laughing,
children playing,
& thus playgrounds,
serious folks who pay attention,
Anarchists ... of course,
my old grannie for her
attentions,
English food when it actually
works,
trees,
birds, bees,
old Chinese folks up at dawn
to collect cans,
& my Facebook friends,
take care you all now.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
there is an exquisite blue bird
from another realm
deep in the trees
he is elusive
and beautiful beyond compare
he shimmers in the light
black
a deep blue
hints of the finest most delicate feathers of
peach and yellow
he sings a song for his mate
an unearthly humming
a soothing introduction
and she is his.
he is gentle but his body moves
with skill
vibrating a show of luminance
texture, and color
he is brilliant
how does a drab female
win the attentions of one such
as this?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC