"grope" poems
419
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
22.3k
Bittersweet, get me going.
hold your breath over my neck,
it really
lets me go,
twists my tongue.
Talk to me
like an angel
but,
touch me
like a convict.
disrespect me,
neglect me,
abuse me,
but,
with a voice I can't refuse.
Bittersweet, like a rose infused.
Bittersweet, keep me going.
my heart
flutters and flails when I hear you in my ear.
Whisper me **********
but,
***** me
like a ******
****** me,
reduce me,
fool me,
but Bittersweet,
make me feel *****
Like you're in school
and I am turning thirty.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC
” she is quick to object"
Mumbai, to receive the accolade of “Role Player
Attempt to hit back at their perceived “bully.”
They don’t fall a little; they crash into muck...
submission,
hopelessness,
impunity,
corruption,
hypocrisy,
law and family ...
to ***** you since they’re not saints,
they are neither saints nor priests,
There’s a new order coming from mayor.
We won t **** you all ....
We will just shoot the ****** that —
if there is no ****** it would be useless.
she is quick to object".
Fighting sexism and misogyny,
nonetheless open and willing to listen,
wear bug spray going forward,
“inform the court that we did this”
“didn’t like that.”
,” she is quick to object".
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
In fathoms
Between my flannel sheets,
There's no better place
To sleep;
But then I turn my blanket on,
Level Two
Is snug and warm.
Envelope-like we interlope,
Entwine and grind,
And grasp and *****
Giving me rising hope,
This tug's gonna stay afloat.
Up now. Rise. Up periscope!
Dive. Dive!
Beneath waves and swirls,
Beneath flannel caps
To chests of pearls,
Now deeper,
Where life unfurls.
Our raging flannel
Seas
Grow calm;
And in the quiet,
After the storm,
We lie on
Our bedded sea,
My first mate sighs:
*I have to ***
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
He forgot his soap
What a dope
No one here can cope
He's worse than campfire smoke
He could of brought it on a rope
So he wouldn't have to *****
Instead he'll mope
For friends he's got no hope
They run when they scope
The boy without his soap
Rolling down the slope
Singing baroque
Like the pope
He tried a bath in coke
Oh what a joke
Because the sugars provoke
Mosquitoes to bite and poke.
Still he stinks like BO and oak
Smells like a singer of folk
Whose hair is matted into rope
Cause he won't use soap
What a dope!
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We ***** together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
17.9k
At age 7, I was guilty
when I accepted an invitation
to go into the apartment of a neighbor
He smelled of beer as he groped me.
At age 10, I was guilty
when I walked home too late
because I missed the train
He popped out of the bushes
exposing himself.
At age 12, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
tongue into my mouth
because I could not
get away.
At age 14, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
me to sit on his lap
while in my bathing suit
and I ran away from home.
At age 16, I was guilty
when my uncle convinced
everyone that I was a liar
and I quit school.
At age 18, I was guilty
when I gave birth to
my first child,
because I was ignorant.
At age 20, I was guilty
when I saw the cardiologist
in the reflection of a lamp
************ and the
police laughed at my report.
At age 30, I was guilty
when my employer
trapped me in the elevator
to ***** me, because I
was his subserviant.
At age 36, I was guilty
when I earned jujitsu honors
but risked going to jail
for defending myself.
At age 70, I was guilty
when a neighbor brought
me fruit and grabbed my
breast, because I was alone.
At age 72, I am guilty
of being a ferule woman
for 50 years and for
NOT be silent!
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
Bitter shouting remedies
Wailing in the streets
Beggars wanting more than just
The crumbs off royal seats
Fancy ******* lunatics
Brainwashing people like twits
So ******* what
If I'm female
And want to ***** her ****
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
The fault of our reality is not written in our stars
And it will not dance across unfavorable constellations,
Or dissolve into inconsolable fragments.
The fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
But how fortunate would it be?
To cast the providence of our unlucky affairs
Into the gloomy twilight,
Where the sky is so unilluminated
That we could close our restful eyes
And fathom a world where it does not exist?
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
We are heavily folded sheets of stationary:
A collection of utterances
Bound into melancholy novels
By our mangled hearts,
And though spoken words
Still fall onto my turning pages
As tears do fall from my reddened cheeks,
I have yet to forget
The chapter you have left unwritten,
Because an unwritten chapter is one to be adorned:
It cannot end
For it does not exist.
And so we fumble through an amorous affliction,
Fabricated into a bittersweet infinity.
And at midnight,
When my restless fingers
***** the empty air for you,
And the reality of our desolate fault
Seeps into my hands,
I wish you were here.
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
j.s.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
The first time I made love to my mind
When love escaped from the gaps
Between our silences and overthinkings
I saw the naked mind.
We sailed from thousand cuddles of imprudence
To a long warm kiss of sanity.
While I dwindled in her arms of fool's paradise
No sleep just one long weary night,
Her ****** reeked of loneliness
I licked it. Hoping to taste ingenuity,
it was the aftertaste of forsaken feelings
that made me ***** her
till she stopped moaning neon dreams.
Somewhere in my walkabouts in her
I created deep craters of memories
Which she took for love bites
were, in fact, scars for life.
We were virgins on our quests
Thirsting our way through wanting and longing......
She made me swallow lust
Slowly. Heavily downtown.
And fingered it, the ***** of thoughts
Ruptured.
And she bled musings.
And Phantasmagoria exuding from her holes
And Spurting into mine like a cascade of brooding melancholy.....
And.... And....
The night my mind lost its virginity,
I sat down to write.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
the rope dangles like a noose
I would beg for your sweet abuse
tell me how to hurt for fun
tie me up and come undone
paint my ankles with your thread
fibers rub to crimson red
I'm strong enough to take it
to your love I will commit
tell me all you plan to do
desire and come into
feel your fervour through the rope
feel your tongue against me *****
your need becomes mine to fill
tie me up, I'll be your thrill
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
by
rgpage
in times long past young lovers dashed
to reach their secret space.
to kiss and ***** and plan and hope
their future's goals are placed.
never mind their path be lined
with unknown strife and pain.
their love is strong they'll carry on
with carefree youthful gain.
they don't see their life to be
past cupid's hot embrace.
as hot breath blends with kiss' deep
young lovers start their chase.
young love is hot and secrets not
shall block their youthful nest.
when young men dare and young girls share
young lovers start their quest.
its saturday night, dad's packard's right
with half a tank of gas.
with comb to hair in the bathroom mirror
he's thinking 'bout his lass.
its only been a week gone past
his greatest dream came true.
he staked his claim, with hopes on high
and pinned his Peggy Sue.
they talked of passages young men take
to cross that great divide.
to walk the way of their father's
and yes to take a bride.
in the grown up world so long past school
the grown ups just don't see.
teen love is true and made to last
the way it was meant to be.
he got on base with his varsity pin,
the base is numbered two.
this place before he'd never been
he hardly knew what to do.
his body went through changes great
his thoughts a swirling brook.
he cupped his prize with shaky hand
when before he could only look.
tonight's the night he's waited for
yes perhaps go all the way.
to walk with those who've beat love's quest
to become a man this day.
the time is ripe as is the night
it's planned in every way.
she won't resist his manly charms
WHAT MONTHLY FRIEND?
how long does she plan to stay?
and what's her visit to do with us
away from the lights of the city?
who is this friend to ruin this night?
his plans be dashed more the pity.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
no slavering kisses
like a dog on heat
no schoolboy fumble
wanting you to beat his meat.
no ***** in the dark
or a letch to grab your ****
no rancid breath,nor sweaty skin
to grasp you in his mits.
just you and your fingers
and your own ***** vices
pure ecstacy of loving yourself
with your battery op devices.
it is all in the touch
the rhythm of your wrist
the way your body squirms
giving a wriggle to your hips.
a gasp n moan
************ brings you pleasure
frustrated tensions fade away
as you fiddle at your leisure.
reaching your crescendo
a throb a pant a sigh
eyes slightly misted
youre at your dizzying high.
copyright gothicmistress 2010
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 6:02 AM UTC
He motioned for her to take her place on the back.
He braced himself steady as she slid herself onto the rack.
Once she had settled, he handed her his gunny sack,
He told her keep it safe as he tackled the offbeaten track.
The night was quiet, save for the crickets chirping in unison
Hiding behind the clouds, the moon gave out a dim ominous glow.
The tapper finally felt a tiny sliver of trepidation
He wasn't sure of the outcome, that night would eventually show.
The whole time, he was thinking in his busy little head...
He tried to devise ways to thwart this playful, mischievous being.
But those thoughts of his were quickly derailed instead.
For her perfumed presence was very much intoxicating.
Soon they had arrived at the foot of the hill
He hastened his pedalling to meet the uphill slope.
He would have continued slamming on the pedals until...
He felt her hand on his shoulder clench into a tight *****
He tilted his head back towards his beautiful passenger.
In a calm manner he mouthed the words asking, "What's the matter?"
Her voice came right after in a nervous stammer,
"Would you mind slowing down because last night this was where I had fallen over..."
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
She moved me.
Dancing in a
circle of women
She moved me.
Rising from the Earth
into my womb
through my heart
to the tips of my fingers
She moved through me.
With her sacred dance
She showed me
how to dip into
Her honey ***
arousing a lust
for Life’s sweet Nectar.
A longing
so deep that my
blind fingers *****
in the dark for
one touch from
the lips of
The Beloved.
One lick,
one ****
one sigh,
one moment
of bliss
before I die
to this dance,
to the thundering
footsteps
in my breast.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 4:56 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
As I try to shield myself from the beast of civilization, the cold hearted bleeding dagger protruding through the back of America, that filthy, filthy, king of darkness swallowing the minds and dissecting the thoughts of the youth, the raging zombie in the form of love. So I tried. Beauty claim the beast as it was written and saw the true face of Frankenstein. What a soft timid thing, similar to me. Dare I try? ***** the breast and taste the flesh of the raw meat. Something new, something sweet, something just like me. Beauty tamed the beast and so the face was revealed.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
365Nectar #60 Devour Me
Fri. November 22, 2013 9:18 P.M.
Devour me...
A provocative passionate pouring
of pillaging and plundering...
A pleasing prowling
of a piercing plunderer...
A lovely, limp nymph
laid upon a sizzling alter...
Smoldering...
Awakening all the senses
a choking of lust
unleashes exhilarating
and
envelops you...
Effortlessly evoking ethereal...
a sinister seduction
seductively seduces
and hungry hips
breakdance with hysterical
Stimulating a surreal surge of a sweet seeping...
waiting...
impatiently...
For you to chisel
an unimaginable devouring...
S slow steady climb to the summit
of the ultimate ******
Time-
Time-
Time... a tool to employ flamboyantly...
immediately...
eargerly...
Expose my conquered heart
that leaks
of streams
of cream
of succulent sensation...
Expose my tamed moistness
that whispery whines
as you build a legacy
of torturous licking....
Seductively...
Slithering in spicy spirals
of stirring screams
from stormy shivers
of steamy anticipation
of your redefining touch...
Suddenly...
drowning in the sticky sensation
of all that is us...
A tender luscious love liquefying flesh
and penetrating souls...
We blend in blazing bliss
tapping taboo for titillating thrills
you rock a rowdy ravishing
inside me...
I whisper wet whimpers
and beg for bitten breast...
Our wrestling hips
hug, ***** and groan a hungry growling...
Pounded into saturated submission
I linger in lubricating dreams
for you-
to...
devour me.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ********** that does it.
But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.
Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor orgy-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****
What more can you want from a one night stand?
After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.
After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.
After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
I. St. Luke The Painter
Give honour unto Luke Evangelist;
For he it was (the aged legends say)
Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist
Of devious symbols: but soon having wist
How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day
Are symbols also in some deeper way,
She looked through these to God and was God’s priest.
And if, past noon, her toil began to irk,
And she sought talismans, and turned in vain
To soulless self-reflections of man’s skill,
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again,
Ere the night cometh and she may not work.
II. Not As These
‘I am not as these are,’ the poet saith
In youth’s pride, and the painter, among men
At bay, where never pencil comes nor pen,
And shut about with his own frozen breath.
To others, for whom only rhyme wins faith
As poets,—only paint as painters,—then
He turns in the cold silence; and again
Shrinking, ‘I am not as these are,’ he saith.
And say that this is so, what follows it?
For were thine eyes set backwards in thine head,
Such words were well; but they see on, and far.
Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit
Fair for the Future’s track, look thou instead,—
Say thou instead ‘I am not as these are.’
III. The Husbandmen
Though God, as one that is an householder,
Called these to labour in his vine-yard first,
Before the husk of darkness was well burst
Bidding them ***** their way out and bestir,
(Who, questioned of their wages, answered, ‘Sir,
Unto each man a penny:’) though the worst
Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry thirst:
Though God hath since found none such as these were
To do their work like them:—Because of this
Stand not ye idle in the market-place.
Which of ye knoweth he is not that last
Who may be first by faith and will?—yea, his
The hand which after the appointed days
And hours shall give a Future to their Past?
3.9k
We are the genuine men
We are the fulfilled men
Standing together
Headpiece filled with ideas. Huzzah!
Our powerful voices, when
We cheer together
Are loud and meaningful
As wind in wet grass
Or dancing feet over wooden floors
In our damp attics
Shape with form, shade with colour,
Dynamic force, motion without gesture;
Those who have crossed
With indirect eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Forget us—if at all—not as found
Peaceful souls, but only
As the genuine men
The fulfilled men.
Eyes I dare meet in nightmares
In death’s dream kingdom
These do appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a whole column
There, is a tree standing
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More close and more bashful
Than a newly formed star.
Let me be closer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me not wear
Such obvious disguises
Silk shirt, snakeskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
Closer—
That first meeting
In the twilight kingdom
This is the living land
This is fruitful land
Here the cloudy images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a living man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a newly formed star.
It is like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking together
At the minute when we are
Shaking with excitement
Lips that would kiss
Form praise to no stone.
The eyes are here
There are eyes here
In this valley of living stars
In this flowing valley
This whole jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this first of meeting places
We ***** alone
And invite speech
Gathered on this beach of the free river
Vision, unless
The eyes disappear
As the periodic star
Monofoliate daisy
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of whole men.
*Here we go round the mulberry bush
Mulberry bush mulberry bush
Here we go round the mulberry bush
At five o’clock in the morning.*
Between the thought
And the implementation
Between the movement
And the deed
Rises the Light
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the inception
And the construction
Between the feeling
And the reaction
Rises the Light
Life is very short
Between the need
And the want
Between the potential
And the substance
Between the ingredients
And the ascent
Rises the Light
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world begins
This is the way the world begins
This is the way the world begins
Not with a whimper but a bang.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
in the middle of a dark night
no moon or street light
and I could hardly see the road in front of me
but it was free
and so we settled
and thus we pedaled
more then 30 winding miles
into this wilderness of isles
or so it seemed
so very mean, just like a dream
he said "continue ,
for it is in you
and we can make it to the place
within an hour, at this pace."
his plan was brutal
I'm not a poodle
but I could truly smell the sweat
and feeling hot and sopping wet
it was no fun. at. all
and like the day y'all
so very done
again not fun
and it is true
that maybe you
would think ahead and plan the weekend
get a room and buy a map
none of this crap
(but I'm a sap
and went along with his idea
for I had hopes for us last year)
and so we learned
the hard way burned.
Well I could barely,
i say just barely
make out the single line white striping
while he's right behind me griping,
"can't you speed up?
we're gonna meet up
and the collision won't be pleasant"
not that pleasant was he were
so very DER!
it's so ironic, perhaps moronic
for there were headlights
coming up the hill in front
and to be blunt
they had to blind me
oh please don't mind me
for I quickly left the scene
right off the road
and with scream
into the blackness of a pitch
which sent me down into a ditch
a steep ravine
so very mean
and then the bike no longer able
to remain beneath my seat
after that drop
the roll to stop
landed on top
and not so sweet
so very beat
I said '"oh sheet"
I was not laughing,
nor was I crying
and but more like " could it be
dear Lord that I am dying?
Oh my God, excuse the curse
so freaking odd, though i've seen worse
and though my body's somewhat shaken
not a bone or tooth was breakin'
and I'm fully wide awake and
not a pain or any ache~
so very odd
it must be God.
and there I lie
perfectly high
my eyes wide open couldn't scope but
in the darkness I could *****
the rock beside my fallen hide
and in a moment not an omen
he said "Gee!"
"Is this your knee?"
I said: " Hey Mr. Moulder,
you've got my shoulder."
"I should have driven in the Bently"
and as he pulled the bike off gently
asking how these things do happen
"nevermind, just lets get snappin"
and we made it to the youth hostel that night.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
it's the difference between
you're so awesome and
you're so interesting
it's the difference between
a compliment
and whistling at me in public
yes i express myself
yes i am noticeable
no i don't want you to touch me
yes i express myself
yes i am noticeable
no i don't need your opinion
it's not okay to kiss me
touch me
***** me
pet me
without permission
and it's not okay
that to avoid these gestures
i have to change
my expression
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC