I have been ridiculed, spat at and shouted at,
By those that haven't an iota of sensuality,
Thinking I disrupt their fantasy behavior.
They swallow porn, which is an act,
Performed by those without a spirit,
Gifted by long strokes and not art.
The gift of prose in my darkening,
Is subject to thinking and believing.
On paper eroticism lives.
I have been ridiculed, spat and shout,
But with my truth I have the clout.
In my writings I come alive.
The cock a joust for my fair ladies,
Within the chalice of the cunt, I cum.
Evermore, poetically spewing.
In peppermint, my swizzle stick thrills,
Fellatio in writings, I need no beer.
Adagio raises the pulse.
Elixir of quill on mortal flesh flowing,
Spawning the throbbing of one's clit.
At my desk, writ of fornications.
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