A Meditation on Bad BDSM Poetry

A Meditation on Bad BDSM Poetry
(c) cyberplaything 2003

O yes, i am submissive
i revel in Your use of my body,
control of my (willful) mind:
come bind me
mindfuck me and clamp my nipples hard
growl in my ear as You tie me up
slap me when i can't keep quiet enough
then wickedly belt my wicked ass
as you demand, with a vicious Dom grin,
"now, tell me how much you like being my little fucktoy"
while i'm gasping for breath and beyond speech.

O, yes, i am Your sweet submissive,
dear Master,
but i near open rebellion
when i read
bad BDSM poetry.

Perhaps i must see this as part of my training
of my ultimate surrender to Your will...

But
how many times can i read the purple prose,
the downcast-eyed leash offering,
the repetitive foot-licking,
the sickly-sweet devotion,
the weepy quivering words,
(should she be able to speak at all?)
"There is no life or breath but Master's will"

And
how many times
endure horrid Dom rhymes
of leather and tears
of a humble slave's fears
of the depth of emotion
and her abject devotion

i'm not saying you won't find me doing those things
i'm not dissing the depths of power exchange
i'm not saying i don't share
the desperate need to lose control
the glory of yielding
the bliss of release
...and i'm not denying i have limits to overcome

i'm just saying
must they write bad poetry about it?