You left me this way.
Prey for the strippers, nurses, groupies, servers, and all my exes
You know that I always fall victim.
Sick, addicted and twisted.
These hormones are killing me.
Not even yours, but I’m still pretending.
Still acting like she’s you,
Still acting like I’m living.
Pipe of the Pope!!
Hot as lava, no joke,
And that’s just when you’re clothed!
Bet big bucks, that when you’re exposed,
Behind closed doors,
It makes it even harder to say no
Just want that tender touch
That caress of a woman’s soft and dainty hands
Want to see her painted nails colorize the creases on my skin.
Give life to my dead flesh.
Warm and alive on the outside, from your embrace.
Still cold, calloused and numb inside.
Walled up and guarded until I’m convinced this is reality.
The ‘ol ink stroke on dead tree parts.
At least someone is making use of deforestation.
Better that they don’t go barren, blank and completely wasted.
My generation is full of writers that seem to have lost that physical touch.
They would rather utilize the digital format because “it saves time” and eases the dreaded editing process.
Our styles aren’t quite the same.
Hand-written material allows me to feel the words.
Through the wrist, they force themselves onto the paper.
My hand becomes overridden by the words and thoughts in my brain.
It leaves them concrete and unchangeable.
Honest, and raw.
Sure, anything meant for publication purposes will go through an editing process before public consumption is available.
Still, it’s here.
The bare bones truth.
The bold, real first draft.
Cross it out.
Rip it up.
Mark all over the fucker.
It’s still here.
It can’t be deleted.
I prefer things that way, all around.
Society tends to sugar coat too much these days.
Call it politically correct-if you must-but what I’m gonna call it is internalized.
Someone’s gotta not give a neutral fuck.
How is it possible that so many of you previous date-night partners are nurses?
It’s like you’re having some secret meeting. All the lesbians stemming from the healthcare field, just conjuring at some underground layer directly between HCMC and St. Joes at Fairview Riverside.
You’ve all met, and you’re all in agreeance: I’m sick!
I need help!
Will you nurse me back from the last one of your kind?
She was good.
Claimed to be learning homeopathic remedies and all that herbal, hippie shit, yet it felt like she slowly poisoned me.
Like she hit me with a diagnosis of Munchhausen Syndrome.
Sick indeed, but I loved her.
I need to be freed!
Take my vitals and administer your best care please.
Little bit off.
Aren’t we all, after all?
For every tick, there’s a tock.
Bare space on the wall, blank with no clock.
Like time is just a concept,
One to just be forgot
Do what you want to
Whenever you want to, you shouldn’t be stopped
By silly numbers, conceived out of thought
If you REALLY want to live,
That concept must be dropped.
Baby, please please me!
Want it all.
Help me get up?
Help me recover?
Help me relearn how to love by acting the part of a lover?
Give me attention.
Teach me more lessons.
Broken, so hold me.
Mend me, been fending for me.
The one and only one left,
Who can’t up and flee.
Curve of your chest,
Boasts the petite broadness in your shoulders.
Expose a little more flesh,
Tonight, affairs are in order.
Watching her polish those apples, forearms bulging.
Is it obvious to the world?
To anyone else at this far-too-posh farmers market?
How everything, every-where in this room just looks like pure sex?
I can’t help it.
I haven’t in months.
There might be cobwebs if my organs weren’t still pumping full-fledged hormones in strange women’s direction.
Tingles down to the toes these days, merely by the most simple of interactions.
The next female to whisper an innocent anything in my ear is bound to make me blast-off.
Those little hairs on the back of the neck ready to raise like a white-flag.
I’m beyond ready to propel!
Just patiently waiting to explode.
Light me on up, baby.
Touch me. Tease me. Kiss me. Please me.
Greedily need me, it’ll make it so easy.
My strength in fleeing my demons has gone past fleeting.
I’m ready. No need to wait for the weekend.
We could be creeping tomorrow afternoon.
We could fuck.
There’s no need to sleep in.
But we haven’t even spoke yet, just a stranger to yet meet this evening.