- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Our Disease
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It’s a tickle
In the back of the mind
An itch that builds
Some
Dark
Thing
That forms itself into words
It’s an uncontrollable urge
A crusty scab that must be picked
‘Til the blood freely flows
It’s growing
The trickle becomes a flood
The flood takes a shape
It’s a twitch in the fingers
A jolt down the arms
It’s a monster
It wants out
It’s a virus
It’s host, just a vehicle
This is a fix
A stop-gap, no more
There is no cure
We are all madmen
And poetry, our disease
It slinks itself against the back of the eyes
Evoking soft sighs
And rapid heartbeats
Some
Sugary
Lover
Plucking out a melody in the mind
It’s a flush of heat
A sweet ache
That must be eased
It’s growing
The ache becomes a desire
The desire becomes a hunger
It’s ripple in the flesh
A storm raging in the blood
It’s a firestorm
It must consume
It’s possession
It’s host, the finest wine
This is a dalliance
Play time, an hour
It won’t end here
We are all madmen
And poetry, our disease
- COMMENTS
LeBrozabout 16 years agoA bit of fun here, of this disease called poetry; some have it worse than others, but it all flows from diseased minds that creatively play with words.
KOLKOREabout 16 years agoThank you very much for just diagnosing me with one more ailment (as if I didn't have enough already)... But truly, what a sweet disease... both the symptoms and the course of the illness… Let's just hope it's chronic...
