I fear my dear my ****** dreams of you,
the longing for salacious contact;
the rousing impure dreams of your
naked body is dementing my soul.

Often in my dreams, I think of
myself as a vampire lusting for
your juicy young flesh.

I know one day our bodies will be
one again in heavenly blood, our
blissful coupling will float forever,
my dear sweet succulent angel.

My whole being shall mingle with
yours; only the most boundless
abandonmen can satisfy my lust
for you; for our love consists in
a mysterious fusion of our most
carnal personnal experiences.

Since your death dear one my desire
for you only increases and flourishes
my need to in twine firmly forever
with you my beloved . . .

To recieve you into my inter-most
being, and be one with you till
eternity is all I long for now.

I know you are an apparation that
has deranged my spirit; but please
dear do not resist my satonic
passionate dreams of you, for I
would die so that we could feed
on each other, on each other alone.

Writing should never be about who liked it or disliked it. Personally I feel peace, to write events, daily life activity without an end. I don't know topics, I don't know how to blend words like the professionals. Furthermore I don't have that time to decorate beautifully, but honestly I never cared about getting it right and I don't compete besides doing personnal best.

To be precise, we are among those people who (need to) have patience to listen, to see, to feel, and finally process all those stimuli to get back with a better reflection. How much we know them is, how much we have touched their lives.
The extra mile is the factor what makes someone to write. And luckly, I am among that someone.
Finally I write to empty my head.

If we will not write, who will?