"testosterone" poems
She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.
A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.
She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.
If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.
She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.
Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****
She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?
He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
in high school
despite the last bit of it
being spent as overweight
and with major lack of confidence
i found myself indifferent
to everything.
maybe it was because of the depression
and the abuse
or it was everything combined
but i wasn't excited or upset
about graduating.
i didn't have anything
to look forward to,
the life i imagined for myself
after high school
was a coffin
and i couldn't see anything past that.
sometimes i found myself thinking that
if i failed my senior year
i could stay another year
and maybe that would mean
another year for me to live
before i met the end.
mostly,
in those last few months
i found myself growing fonder
of the people that spent their time
teaching me the things they knew
and i had begun
to entertain the idea of becoming a teacher
since i thought
that i would get nowhere
with art or writing.
after i graduated
and realized i wanted to live after all
i spent little to no time
looking into becoming a high school teacher
it all seems too much of everything
too much money, too much time
not having enough time
that's the thing holding me back
my excuses that keep me stuck
and flailing around
wallowing in self-pity
in the pig sty of my room.
maybe if i took a leap
took a chance,
grew a metaphorical pair of *****
(or just got a shot of testosterone)
i would man up
and do the **** that it takes
to get where i want to be.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
An era of feminism,
Which should never be questioned.
Empowering women
To strive, and strive again.
We speak of desexualization.
To free the ******
Unveil carnal harassment,
And speak our minds.
But we can be sightless
Toward the sexualization of man.
The way we view testosterone
As broad shoulders and shirtlessness.
Do not sift through my words!
I believe in the power feminism.
But I am disappointed
With the sexualization of man.
We're determined to trump the blurred *****
Yet drool over a man in Calvin Klein.
We frown upon the "Perfect Body" campaign...
But applaud a "built" man.
I wish for bodies to be just that:
Bodies.
For sexualized men and women
To be more than carved features.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
dysphoria
is sitting in front of a mirror
for 30 straight minutes
picking out the tiny things
that make people misgender you.
trying to pull back your chest
pretending you have a flat one
scratching down your biceps
because maybe if they were more toned
you would be called a boy
clawing at your thighs
because if they were small and beautiful
then people might think you are a he
dysphoria
is sobbing while doing all of that
the mirror is now your enemy
giving you a million things to change
but you have no way of changing it.
maybe sleeping will help?
that is if you get past your thoughts
of your disgusting body
calm down for a bit to even let you slip into somber.
but then dreams come
you dream of being on testosterone
having a beard with a deep voice
maybe even your top surgery
where you no longer have to deal with having a chest
but you wake up
no way of getting these things
it haunts you for days.
dysphoria
is the mirror no longer being
a place to just fix up your hair or do your make up
it’s where your demons live
passing by a reflective surface
and seeing even a glance of your body
makes you want to die and tear it apart
dysphoria
is someone brushing against your thigh
and you wanting to puke everything
you have ever eaten
because they touched your body
a disgusting girls body
it can’t be mine
but I hate it none the less
dysphoria
is someone taking out your soul and choking it
the lack of breath comes from a panic attack
your nails clawing and digging into your skin
because this can’t be you. this isn’t mine
this body needs fixing
so does this soul.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.
I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high
You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you
And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.
I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
I own a good chin to lift
a look that threatens from a distance.
The shield I never thought I’d get in the mail is here,
name written on it and everything.
So I walk out, shield up,
and yet
I shiver if I only get a hint of
A scent,
reminding me of someone
who ****** me with no permission.
Sometimes, I forget the amount of my anger
But, if it bares meaning,
I understand it.
Not only mine, the anger of many women, who
woke up in someone’s bed, and
left there smelling of a body
they didn’t choose to smell of.
Don’t tell me I should’ve said “No.”
Because sometimes the mouth doesn’t listen to the body,
body doesn’t listen to the brain,
the brain is not aware that
six years later you’ll be sobbing with the realization that
you’re afraid of the man you trust most of all
because he produces testosterone.
Six years ago, it happened too fast.
I didn’t say “No.”
He didn’t give me time to do it.
As I was leaving, eyes clenched to my feet
I let him kiss me and say:
“I hope you don’t regret this night.”
That’s what makes me the angriest.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
You stripped me of my innocence.
Yours were the first lips
To press passion onto my stunted ****
My body bruised by your touch,
Your forked tongue hissed through gritted teeth,
Caress me, as your hands rattle
With anger, desire.
Testosterone fulled triggers
Blew holes into my anatomy,
Ripping apart my flesh.
Now I tie stitches where skin should be,
I'm bleeding out my purity.
Drip,
Drip,
Drip.
The beads of sweat, roll downwards,
Trickling off your looming armour.
They dance with the oceans in my eyes.
Itching spiders romance with the bones
Upon my empty corpse.
Hollow reeking mass,
Devoured by play pretend.
Love lead way to self devouring devotion,
We play on ties with lit matchsticks.
Broken, singed strings,
Where my innocence should lie.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
Girls are the emotionally hurt ones
They need a tough boy to come in a rescue them
Well let me tell you, boys aren't superheroes
They go home just like girls and cry too
They have emotional problems, and
Underneath the shell of testosterone and cologne
There is a soft underside, easily bruised
But girls think the need superman to save them
They want him to lift them off their feet as they
Fly away into the refuge of love
But the moment he reveals his emotional underside
Girls turn away, and scrutinize him
How dare HE say he has problems!
I AM the one needing saving! I'm the hurt one!
They turn him away like a side dish,
As they are the main course, with all the problems
Well stop being so vain and thinking you need saving
Because guys sometimes need superheroes too...
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Estrogen swimming,
Testosterone pumping,
Basically just another excuse for teens to drink alcohol and smoke ****
But **** if you get laid… props.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
The youth
Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
Youth is Coca-Cola,
Marlboro, whiskey and energy,
The eternal monologue of life,
ID number, property tax and Netflix.
Youth is John Lennon,
Che, Fidel and Hendrix,
Contemporary history,
ancient and medieval history.
Youth is pants ripped jeans,
Popsicle, lollipop, painted face,
Chicle, coffee and french fries,
Point G, miniskirt and condoms.
Youth is the Dalai Lama,
Techno, rave and rasta,
Drugs, drops and guitar,
Punk, samba and hopefully that-fall.
Youth is the opposite of the opposite,
It's a Friday at midnight,
Mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise,
X-salad, ham and cheese sandwich and X-men.
Youth is D-Day,
Vietnam, Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Testosterone, Woodstock and Waterloo,
Afghanistan, TPM and MTV.
Youth is a pressure cooker,
Isis, Syria, sukiyaki,
Anonymous, Al Qaeda, rice and beans,
Genesis, Revelation and mint candy.
Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
At this precise moment.
I'm nothing but a human being under the intense influence of dopamine, norepinephrine, epinephrine and testosterone.
The infuriating effects will last, as will my aggression.
There's a reason why this is all happening. You.
Because of you.
I have no hatred nor much of the love I had for you.
For you have taken that away from me, and given it to him.
I have no words for you.
All the best.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
Smoky air, fedora and billboards,
testosterone-fuelled dreams.
the purest of all male forms in its finest
yet darkest days.
Who run the world? Men.
The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow
that controls what we are prohibited.
The lights of Morris Minors flooding the
streets.
The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes.
They’re in charge. Them, and only them.
A red right-hand to those anti-them.
They will tear you apart
if you decide against pledging allegiance.
Or you’ll end up in the sand.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
**** men
predatory *** hounds
chasing skirts and tights
aching **** idiots
disciples of Eros
Christs of fetish
reconciling nothing
veiling that principled demeanor
of feminist culture
"of don't objectify me".....translation
sensual form is not natures ruse
machine Eve must
override override override
well the id does not negotiate
the superstructure
of affected political tele-reality
starring
the liberal chattering class
who speculate male motives
to be some vainglorious power trip
while corporatized media personalities
feign out of control lust
as a mental disorder
and
sit up like shuddering Pekingese
yessing the lascivious
as a fiction
no ladies
its not just power
theories are not testosterone
it is pure unadulterated
relentless
irreducible
urge to merge
like the beluga **** channel
sea world as you've never seen it before
where male dolphins
batter and gang bang
the weaker ***
in search of feral harmony
in an overbuilt society
yet to become a civilization
are we
scissored between a wild ****** id
of the damed
and the Victorian sacred
of the damed
oh you silky damsels
makin men moody and humid
pure **** heroine
a poison ivy of ***
like a rash
givin men folk the itch
cant stop the twitch
rubber *******
in a rubbing frenzy
from your soaking heat and odor
we are a rumbling of muttering torments
for the forbidden taste
of you
oooow
oooow
we are pan in a mad dance
for glistening shanks
and buttery kisses
we are the early bird looking for the worm
hunters decreed by the liturgy of heaven and hell
a constellation of infatuation and lechery
mad with adoration
love slaves in a raging furnace of desire
*** addicts
that just say yes
turgid dogs
hole sniffers
voluptuous monsters
all johnny apple seed
and sometimes your salvation
as you are ours
knowing that sometimes
real eroticism eclipses morality
and yes my darlings*
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
you say,
you are not a ******
you say,
you come in peace
but this does not put me at ease.
because you are a man
tall,
dominant,
strong.
i am aware of your testosterone
lingering in your blood stream
like alcohol,
in a drunken girl.
unconscious,
while he feeds on her drunken body
like prey.
you say,
you are not a ******
you say,
you mean no harm
but i am a woman,
in a man's world
and you are a man,
in a rapist's world
so i hear yours words
and approach with caution.
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 4:50 AM UTC
Once a year they'll disappear
To a place their wives can't go
With chicken wings and other things
To watch the super bowl
A place where chick flicks don't abide
For testosterone rules this place
A place where a man can be a man
With no girly stuff or lace
A place so secret even the FBI
Don't know of its existence
It's guarded by lots of ***** traps
And mans undying persistence
A place where women cannot enter
I'm talking about their wives
A secret knock will open the door
To a land of beer and high fives
So if your husbands disappear
Without even a kiss or a wave
He's only gone for once a year
To visit his secret Man Cave
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:24 AM UTC
Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.
Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.
Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.
Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.
Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
Just as a boy grows into teenager,
he is bound, to one day, grow into man.
I think it's when he is just five years old,
he becomes a demolition fan.
At that juncture, it's all about the tools.
To dismantle what works perfectly well.
They may begin plastic at the start,
but it triggers something in their cells.
A teenager will start with something small,
a lawnmower, dirt bike, then on to cars.
Then as he ages and gains life experience,
the quest for tools is written in the stars.
It starts with a simple set of wrenches.
Then moves on to socket sets and ratchet.
Not just ASE, they need metric as well.
A tool store is a veritable banquet.
Metal worker, wood crafter, mechanic,
Plumber a welder and electrician.
Wrapped up in a testosterone package,
needing a new tool for the next mission.
Watch as his eye light, when reaching for a tool,
that's new to the market, sitting on display.
It's no longer about simple fun in an old cardboard box.
It will be tools from now till his dying day.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
Dear Testosterone,
You made me sweaty, ***** and sometimes angry too
But I would be lying if I could say I know what I’d do without you
You changed my life from the outside in
Showed me that living as my true self is not living in sin
Each month I’m amazed by how much change I see
In my face, my voice, my hair and all of me
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 8:04 PM UTC
High speed **** generation
warped minds
strong hands
unreality stimulating, simulating
digital lights flickering
images of *******
endless variety of every kind
on demand
what has become of us
what has become of touching, romance
creepy accusations because genuine human interaction is going the way of the dodo,
Oh, he didn't follow the smooth script, no chance man
Maybe your testosterone was spent elsewhere and your vibes told the true true
either way no *** for you
the youth exploited and exploiting, insane cycles
the itch, the tingle, the curiosity, the drive for more, dopamine release
My generation had the first ******** access
point and click
no barriers can stop that drive, rooted in youthful pubescent longing
we're sick
on the digital drug
Touch me instead
bath me in your ***
not this crude moving picture
Let me drink you, taste your juice, feel you slide,
touch the walls of your world, explode them,
show the limitless illusion to boundaries, kink, **********
stop watching, live it
chronic ************ robs us of the real intimacy,
don't drain your desire for me with this crude digital *******
just because its there
You can touch me, not your keyboard, not this plastic and metal
I suppose you can touch yourself,
but have the imagination to fantasize
and then make it real
share your life force with a human being,
not some rag to be thrown away
Rise to your lust, conquer the animal
make its power serve
make love,
not digital mental war
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
breathing down my neck
smelling like axe and testosterone
a mixture of callouses on my
baby doll hands
and the sun's reflections through dusty windows
on a winter day
I know that my actions are erroneous
stained with reluctance
the windows in my old church
scream at me for the reluctance
I stopped believing in god when I realized it spells dog backwards. or was it when I was 13 and realized I would make 75 cents to every dollar.
my unfounded reasoning for running
substantiated only by my astrological sign which I reluctantly believe on days where I need a hiatus from the dirt in between my toes
SCORPIO
it plays hard to get
but astrology spells dog backwards too
I should've said yes to the axe smelling boy
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
It had been one of those enervating days,
when officialdom and red tape paperwork
had ****** the yolk and marrow leaving only
a dullness that yawed the ghost ship of her frame.
She decided not to cook, as much as
payback for her ordeal by proper channels.
And so to the "Toilet Bar", cafe of choice
for malicious villagers, though rarely women.
The men folk hardly stared upon her entrance,
by now they knew those leopard skin boots,
that packed a wallop they grudgingly took
stock of, then returned to their cheese and wine.
This was her quarter of salt cod with cream,
prepared by owner Paula and daughter Carolina,
the only other women tolerated amongst the chairs,
that smelled of tar and testosterone.
Lacking collars three tumbled to the stony street,
drunken mechanic, one armed plumber, peg-legged sailor,
the kerfuffle amusing her, their wicked aunt.
Another Lagoan night that shimmered out to sea.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
I've got a **** right there between my legs
It hangs and grows like another ***** might
It's a shame the reality goes over your head
I **** sometimes like a **** truck punching
On all cylinders, I **** sometimes lying
With legs open wanting and exposed
I've got a **** right there between my legs
It hangs and grows like any **** does
It's a shame reality goes right over your head
I altered my consciousness.
I altered my brain.
I altered my hormones.
My testosterone's gone.
My estrogen's over ******* full.
Call me what you want but
My experience is beyond.
Beyond.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Are we capable of making sensible choices?
when our own logic is generated from organic matter; a brain heavily influenced; fueled on random flashes, hormones, pheromones, testosterone, diet, desire, the air we breath, the need to *** or a simple cup of tea; all of which alters our body ~ ((Our chemical bag)); a fragile echo system constantly at odds with other elements.
Our fuel, our input influences the way we think, Yet our ego tells us that we are in control; and that we makes our own choices.
Put your hands on your hearts people! and tell me how many sensible choices have we acutely made!
I'm personally content that some seemingly bad choices have turned out quite nice!
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 7:39 AM UTC