It's not a feeling. It's not a heart-felt, soul-bound desire.
It's a reaction. That combusts, and sets you on fire.
With the full moon, when the earth shakes.
With the bloodlust, when the mind quakes.
And I am gone.
Please forgive me if I touch you, it's not my right I know.
I find I am frightened when you kiss me, it's a fantasy freak show.
I hold you tightly and you tease me, you are forcing me to grow.
Our human secrets left defenceless, are soon then revealed from head to toe.
The heavy breathing, the tender touches, we cannot seem to slow.
You whisper something to the heavens, but it is consumed by our to and fro.
It's not a feeling. It's not a heart-felt, soul-bound desire.
It's a reaction. That combusts, and sets us both on fire.
With the sun rise, when the earth wakes.
With the madness, when the heart aches.
And I wish I am gone.
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YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 3 - Vaudevillian
PoetryThe "journey to middle age" part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 24-28. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.