Ransacked, pillaged, isolated
symmetry. Well rounded,
probable, precarious, thought
provoking.
Technological leaps in faith
have produced these lies, this
vast empire’s stronghold,
semantics are American
Enterprise.

Shaking off the rust, applying
WD-40 to crusted over joints.
My medicine, blank parchment,
and a pen fueled by therapy.
Striking a spark to the battery
that processes information, and
spits back metaphorical mind
nuggets.
Coal tempered by the pressure
of unique vision, producing a
diamond of rough mind state.
I perpetuate the process by inking
down theories wrapped in
enigmatic colossal interpretive
emotion.

The heart boils over, propelling
steam upward. I’m uncorked,
popped, to sip, to share, to gulp.
Each fluid stroke paints, while
scribbling idealisms far from
thoughtless dribbling.
Why is romanticism so improbable?
Why no matter the familiarity,
men will search for something different?
Why when a woman is ready to give
her heart men won’t stop thinking
with their cocks?

A tongue of feathery pleasantries,
finding, searching every crevice,
every breath becomes hesitant.
Long slender muscles accentuated
by powerful angular features.
Contorted in spasms of erotic
symmetry, pleasure within pain.
Crafted by design to be as
merciless as she is divine.
Tongue strokes less outside, than
in.
Dancing rhythmically across the
tops of kingdoms, standing alluringly
erect. Shadows cast along the nape
of her neck, as light dims, and day
fades.
Melodious tones of delight conjured
from fantasies come true, as patience
is sex’s only golden rule.
Now, now, not yet, whispering,
“what would you like next?
Body overwhelmed, throttled by
passion, as goose bumps gallop along
like the horse of the apocalypse.
Down her spine, across her stomach,
tickling ecstasy into reality.
Marking the path towards pleasure,
catalogued by memory.
Arching now, he penetrates further.
He rests his heated flesh against her
back, kissing her earlobes, and breathing
amasses tenfold.

Climax is the illusion of fancy,
he will not rest until her energy is
emptied. Bitter, sweet sweat lapped up
from the middle of an aching back, the
onrush begins to unfold.
Muscles spasm, she grabs hold, lolling
back, retreating from warmth, a feathery
tongue finishes her off once, grasping
at the air he raises forward, penetrating
ever further, twice, three times.
She is now orgasmic, and he’s calculated
every second. His arms wrench around
her neck, tighter, and tighter, it’s
his turn and she’s become all the
more tantalizing, king of control,
a pawn to power.
He’s played his game, his mind
dances to divine justice, graced by
conquests favorite name,
completion, completion, completion.

I’ll probably never know,
that’s exactly what I’m supposed
to do.
You see, people like me hide behind
striped lines filled with blood splattered
messages meant to relieve my soul.
When in actuality my soul is this
tool.
We create morality through verse.
We create individual thought through
verse.
Most of all we can never stop creating
ourselves, because our minds have
become an infinite playground for
a curious forever growing child.

That’s why I can’t know.
My joy is creativity.
My hope is change.
My weapon of choice is verse.
Surely this too manifests itself in
so many ways. Unlike most I can
never stop being a scientist, because
each time my pen touches virgin
paper, I’m creating me, my hope,
my change.

Granted there is a little piece
of me that’ scared, that’s a little
worried, that the time of change will
come and I haven’t quite crafted
myself to be strong enough to leap.
So, I create this parachute, this safety
among safeties.
I feel best dressed in this state,
that’s why I don’t know why Sam
continues Fucking Justice.