brownsugatou

Dear Lord,
Someone said...
I can't see the hurt in others.
For my own HURT is
Hellbent,
Unfinished,
Regurgitated,
Trash.

I can't deny why, but it sits
In a silent box and hides behind
My laughter and my smile.
Only to show up in my dark circles,
Shorter hair, resolvable health
Ailments, & my fat absorption machine.
So when one bursts my emotional
Bubble that I hide behind so frequently...
Yes, my rivers will flow.
I'll extract venom,
Ask why,
Blame my humble "nice" self,
And hit restart again.

Now wait a minute... humble might
Be too good of a box to put me in.
After all its you looking at me
Looking at you trying to condition me.

So okay,
I fuck up.
I fucked up.
I am fucking up.
But I'm not fucked up!

Therefore, "my tragedies" are not
Beyond me getting on my knees,
Praying,
Putting into action what
I know I can do,
And leaving the rest up to Him.
Amen.

What I wouldn't do right now,
To write right now,
About filling my (w)hole right now.

Stick with me.

I gotta make this poem
Whole right now.

No, I don't need YOU
To make me whole.
But what you got,
Can certainly satisfy my hole.

So, invite your friends -
Thrust & Climax.

I ain't playin' -
I can't wait to ride you.
Mmmmmm....
The chemistry, our synergy,
You'll feel good inside me.

Erotic heat, thigh beats,
Sweat beads and thick meat.

The DJ mixes sexy moans
With booty claps.

On two turntables he scratches.
Che-che-cheek slaps.

You call, I respond -
"It's yours!"

I call, you respond -
"Here I cum, here I cum."

And mmmmmmm...
My (w)hole is now filled...
Both sexually
And literally.

Time to relax the imagination...
And my index fingers. ;-)

The end.