poetry, silence, stoicism, strength, women

Filed under silence

I will keep

All our secrets

But not dwell on them

Too often

Enough

Like sips

To moisten the lips

But there is a beast

Which knows no restraint

And there are people

Monsters who would find

Meat and marrow

In releasing him

So, curation

Falls to a tender, attentive

Librarian

Filed under silence

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, strength, women

Strength

My strength is not

Solely in service

To the movement

Of things thought

Immovable

Or to break the

Unbreakable

No, let me show

You how I can be gentle

With it in its depths

To open.

Dive into the ocean of you

Retrieve the treasure I saw

From the first

To engulf you with it

Wrists in my hands

Pinned and to fuck light

Into you

Until you bruise

With ripeness

To hold firm amidst the

Storm of you

And trust your flights away

Conclude in reunion

To teach you how to shudder

And get what you ask for

From me without concern

For the cares of others

To trust I give the good,deep ache

Over melancholic paper cuts

And photocopied mantras

Of arbitrary goodness

I tear, I break, I rip

Only to build something

Stronger

In

It’s

Place

Wear a braid

Imagine my hand on it

 

 

 

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beauty, poetry, strength, women

Samurai.

I breathe through

Sorrow

A samurai of feeling

I tie my armour

Tighter over the

Wounds

Wash away the blood

I practice my craft

Ritual

Determination

Patience

Purpose

Each kata of expression

Cleaves my demons in two

With that discipline

Comes a channelled fury

I can speak softly, show kindness

And still bring forth

A rapacious fury

Still ravish you with hands

Made hard with strength

I am forged in life’s fires

And I know

That although there are

Burns and wounds

I do not merely endure

But thrive.

My beauty lies in

Victory

And victory lies

In beauty

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, strength, women

Lift

Lift the iron

Throw the fist

Until my demons

Are dismissed

Feel the pump

Of burning red

And thoughts 

Of you

Writhe in my

Head

Your thighs

I part

With callused hand

Fuck you until

You understand

A criminal

To charm the

Severest jury

Little girl

You will grow

To love my fury

My hand will hold

At the nape of your neck

My gruff voice

Has you growing wet

You ask permission

I say

Not 

Yet

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beauty, creative writing, desire, dominance, erotic poetry, erotic writing, erotica, hunger, love, lust, passion, pleasure, poetry, seduction, sexuality, spoken word, strength, surrender, Uncategorized, women, writing

Come At Me

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bath, beauty, creative writing, desire, dominance, emotion, empowerment, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, hunger, love, lust, passion, pleasure, psychology, seduction, sensuality, sex, sexuality, short fiction, short stories, Sir, social media, spoken word, strength, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, women, writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 3: Spoken Word/Audiobook

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art, bath, beauty, creative writing, desire, emotion, erotic poetry, loneliness, love, lust, man, masculinity, passion, poetry, psychology, seduction, sensuality, short fiction, short stories, silence, social media, stoicism, strength, Uncategorized, wisdom, women, writing

Reflections in two mirrors

He sent them to be seen by her. That he had tangible proof of his commitment to his purpose and his growth. Each session, each rejection of easy but costly temptation was there in the heft of his pectorals, the lines and striations in his hip flexors and the way that the softness around his jawline was disappearing. He loved the reaction, knowing that she carried the coiling heat of want within her. A talisman against the bland sweep of days. He could not fake the look in his eyes, in a moment sourced in purest expression of his primal, sexual self. Such awareness and acceptance was rare, he had denied it before, but now he was comforted and protected by it.

She struggled with it. She knew the angles to offset the parts of herself that remained distasteful to her. Her body rebelled with the marks of time, but his reaction cast its  magic over her. A litany of informed praise, fuelled by want rather than need. Through him, she saw herself and it rubbed raw against everything else around her. A sweet pain, an eroticized grief that in its rejection, left deep scars that only he would be able to heal.

Now the mirror, the chain of static images connects them both and they pretend it is not there for the sake of sanity.

It remains though, and it would take so little yet so much to pick it up again and feel its comforting, powerful weight.

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