What a tragedy it is, all of the words that die in our throats, their passionate syllables never spoken.
swallowed by fear
suffocated & suppressed
terrified by the danger of being fully expressed.
how blasphemous to deny our spontaneous cries of desire
our illicit prose of want
to say no to expression when our bodies are moaning:
Yes. More. Please. God.
To withhold what is raw & pure from our lovers
such a selfish sin indeed
muting our pleasure
restraining our creativity
damming our orgasmicness.
Choking on our own tongues
tied up by all the sex unsaid.
All of the dirty. The foul. The too much. The weird. The dark. The true.
I mourn the graveyards our mouths have become
our beds & bodies as coffins and tombs
where pleasure & potential come to decay & die.
The only lover worth being or being with is one with the courage to allow words to tumble out explicitly unfiltered & unrefined.
Who speaks their desire in present time.
Who surrenders their body, soul & mind
- to the poetry of the flesh
to the glory of the sensual & divine.
Give me your sounds.
Give language to your desire.
I am fed by your moans.