This is not a love poem.
Let us not insult each other
By wasting pretty words
Or precious time.
We are not of the same cut
As those romantics,
Those who see eternity
In the face of flowers.

This muse has already,
Willingly,
Spread her legs,
Allowed you to taste her sweetness,
To feel the silkiness
Of her petals
Against your tongue,
And pluck,
Understanding that where there is
Pure art
There is divine ecstasy
And there is exquisite pain.
One cannot be truly free
Of the other,
Not if you wish to create.

Do you wish to create?
Then do not ask
Take what you are fiending for
From this body.
Do not settle for mere mimicry.
I will not let you lose
Your beauty
Or what is uniquely yours
To a mere illusion of lust.
If the searching of my hands distracts
Then bind me,
Bend me over,
Drive deeply,
Break into me,
Feel the core of the matter
Against your most sensitive spot,
Repeatedly rub,
Let friction irritate,
Give flicker to the flame.

Anyone can write a love poem.
Love is polite.
You need to feel more than the offerings of pleasantries.
You need to be rendered speechless,
Inaudible,
As we approach the precipice of rawness,
Skin hitting skin.
This is where sounds leave the lips,
Where music is born,
Where men with small
Minds
Dream up myths
To define what they cannot comprehend.
You are larger than this moment.
You are power.
You thought it sex
But feel the fuck of it
As you ride me.
Breathe in my scent,
Fill your lungs with me
As you release
Into your muse,
Into me.

And, what now drips down my leg
Is you at your best,
Combined with what is left of me.
Gather it in your stylus.
Now you are ready
To write,
Not of love
But of
Poetry,
Of life.
This was never meant to be
A love poem.
I am not your lover.
I am your muse.