A String of Things I Sing

Originally Posted: 4/3/08

So, I think I’d like to shoot myself, or poop myself, who knows? A trivial thing, really, but trivial things grow. They consume and the condemn and then they swoon while we repent. All that shit just rhymed, and I’ve got time to make you mine. I want the world, but not for you. I want the world for me. That’s lacking in romantic words, but not so much in greed. If I be a sinner, then a sinner I shall be, cause like my homeboy Ernest said, all I’ve got is me.

I’d like to swim into you, not to see how you tick, not to see what you’re like on the inside. I’d like to swim into you because you’re beautiful and I’ve got needs like any man. Swimming is just my euphemism. Poets are full of them. In fact, I just used two. To swim in you is to fuck, and poets are full of shit. No one feels the way they do, not even them. Flowery words and mislaid metaphors, laziness and powerful emotions that only other poets grasp and they wonder why no one buys their books anymore? The world has seen through you, you elitist bastards. The masses know what kind of trickery you wield, and still the young and disenfranchised will flock to join your ranks.

Poetry isn’t trickery, I lied a little there. Nonsense, yes, but never lies.

Back to the point. I want you, like I want the world. Beneath me, atop me, wrapped so entirely around me that nothing can touch us. Shuddering beneath me, enslaved to the touch, to the sound of my voice, to the rhythm of my heart and the slow, steady rocking of hips. I want your eyes alternately closed tight and fixed on mine, your lips open, releasing my name from your throat. I want you panting, sweating, and craving, no, needing more. I want you like no one has ever wanted you.

Don’t bother asking why, there are no reasons for this. Its primal, carnal, its instinct more than motive. No conscious thought went into this. No effort, no soul-searching. I see you, I crave you.

I won’t flatter you, I won’t say pretty things in an effort to deceive you about my desires. I have no intention of writing you poems and painting you pictures. No thoughts of how to woo you linger in my mind, and nothing but the feel of your hot skin pressed beneath mine haunts me while I sleep. Its plain, and I wouldn’t sugar coat it if you asked me to. This is how it is, this is how it has to be.

I want you, to want me.

Goodevening,
-S.R.