Confessions of a Poet
Here I lie on my bed made for two.
Belly down in His favorite shirt,my favorite shirt.
Blonde hair in a tangled mess tumbling down my back,spilling over my shoulder and face.
A candle burns on my bedside table.Sandlewood.
Cigarette burning in a dish on the edge of the bed.I only smoke when I am like this.
When I write.
The words force with convictions,yet with no sense of purpose.I form the symbols as they
conceive with no certain direction,coming from a curse which impends.
Yet still manifests as my greatest gift.
The words come faster now.
A smile crosses my lips.I feel a shutter come from deep iside my navel.
I know this aphrodisiac well,and the sensual euphoria it owns.
Forever marking my thoughts and pouring through my fingertips to leave its impression
always written and tattooed on my soul.
Scratching imagery on paper as quickly as I breathe.
My hand cannot catch my thoughts fast enough.I race to catch up in fear that the story will
be forever lost.
I know keys would be less pain and faster,but a pencil to me is quite melancholy.Forcing one
to work for their supper.
A tiny lead stained bump on my middle finger stings with every stroke of my wooden tool.
I relish the bittersweet pain.
As the ending to my series of epic self-gratification begins to unfold,I feel a chill run through
my body from deep within.A warmth washes over my skin,making my pulse quicken.
Yes,there it is.
It is almost there!
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