Poetic Love

My freaky foreplay of collective thoughts begins with a phrase or a metaphor. It arouses me to go deeper into my soul and touch places in my heart and mind that I have long ago retired.

It usurps explosive emotions that makes me cum with a pulsating poetic flow that I write, and write, and write until I release an orgasmic monologue of a suggestive subliminal to signal a submissive surrender of my soul.
I swoon and sway my pen to stroke the silence of words embedded in my cerebellum to the vacancy of space on my paper. The methodical movement of the manic scribbles shouts and screams messages with substance that satisfies the essence of my being and holds my consciousness captive and can only be set free with composed creativity.

My body contorts into the fetal position from the vigorous eroticism of the ejaculation of words that thump through my love canal. It oozes a thick dialect with a milky accent, a liquid splurge of a luscious language that I can smear all over your body until it becomes one with me.
As I bask in the diminishing thrill of the aroused erogenous zone of my mind, my venom of vibrant vocabulary of illicit, incoherent, but softly sputtered spastic sounds solidifies my intense, erratic feelings of pure pleasure that is passionately personified through spoken word.

I make love to my pen-that makes love to the paper-that makes love to the rhythm of written words that emerge-that makes love to the captive audience who listens and a stimulation of emotions are felt by all who lose themselves in the picturesque poetic performance of words that I speak and find its way to that magical spot of which you hold tightly and masturbate with the words in your mind; only to exhale with an understanding of the power of spoken word.