A playful tolerance.
Deliberately built
Tested to a
kind of destruction,
In an excited whisper,
you tell me how
bad you are
The riot I would make of your body.
The kind of slap
That stings when
It’s done right
And as you scream your joy
You still call me
Sir
Advertisements
Reblogged this on literary mind lust… and commented:
I have never reblogged before, but M B reblogs my poetry often (and I am very grateful). This piece hits my sweet spot.
LikeLike
Thank you. I’m pleased you enjoyed it.
LikeLike