to undress your body of
what fabricates
your modesty I crave
you
to feel your bareness on my
fingertips taste you
right between my lips to feel
you rub my tongue clean
with your remedial juice
so bad I crave
to get you inside me hard
to think because I crave you
your texture against mine
the melody once
we collide intensely I crave
a bite however messy
I crave you hungry
my pink lady
apple
Tag: poet
Undressed
Clothed,
Strip me down
Touch me bare
Your warmth on my chest
Let me sense you on my left
Caress the heart distressed
Make me yearn
For a romance,
Dressed.
Dear Creative Writing Lecturer
You said all writers are liars, spies, and thieves, you were wrong. The writer does not lie, he deceives. He does not intend to mislead but those who do not bother to read between his words. The writer does not spy, he studies. He is the examiner of all things left unanalysed. He does not intend to breach personal privacy, but to inform of what is better unhidden. Lastly, the writer is not one for theft, for he does not steal, but respond, recreate. He does not intend to take what is not his, he creates his own language, his own universe, and one to do otherwise is simply not a writer.
Spilled Ink. 