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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Saturday, 13 June 2015


She tortures me!

She's a muse I accuse
for the tremors in my mind.
That on my Richter scale,
surpass the highest unit...

I fear my mind might rapture,
if she sends me and earth quake.

She seduces me...

Lifts her slit,
as if the piece that peeks-
is not enough to keep-
me on my scarred knees.

I want her so bad,
Yet have her at illusive disposal...

She toys with me...

I am her action figure,
I flex my muscles for her;
body, heart, brain, and soul
as she puppeteers my ingenuity.

I play fool for her satisfaction,
but together we orgasm and create.

She makes me feel barren...

Without her I cannot give birth,
so I feel feminised in her presence,
I might be quill equipped and ink dipped;
but without her, I can't break creativity's hymen...

And when she visits I fertilise,
and she helps me conceive virgin concepts.

She mothers me...

Used to lay me in her bosom,
milked my needs to nurture me,
tamed the boy that I was-
into a man with an iron hand...

I now wrought what she drafted,
and she admires our hand crafts.

She loves me...

She gives me all she is,
a goddess that serves me with ease-
I wish her modesty I would return,
for it's hard not to feel loved in turn...

But for all her worth,
I am her kinky love slave...

If she chocked me with inspiration,
for her I would rest peaceful in satisfaction.

She, she is to me,
What life is to the dead;

A chance to live again .

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