Ode To Sylvia

Sylvia once wrote so eloquently,
"My Thumb instead of an onion
Red Coats marching one by one..."
Her severed appendage hanging by a thin
Sheen of skin, served as a reminder

To me, strange as it may seem (not
to any man that is able to recall puberty)
Of my own phallic foreskin for more readily
Available self-pleasuring. Reassuring me
There are women with more delicate sensitivity

Than my pubescent insecurity. Plotting
A scheme to make these thin skinned women
Part of my daily routine; proved to be more than
My sheen could shroud as my manhood grew

Out of cowardice. I chose to prey on those
Ladies that pray for a "Savior" to rescue them
From life's brutality. Providing them with
A sense of security. Conjured by my hardening
Ignorance jutting into the wetness exposed to me.

The urgency floods her "V" as I urgently rub
My penis into each of them. Widening the wound
For each of us as I piston in wanton pleasure.
Flooding my mind and her womb with a chance
To pass our doltish behavior on forever.

I didn't see the futility in my adolescent
Erection. Probing for a chance to make my
Semen march one by one to the promised land.
Much like Sylvia's blood flooded from her severed Thumb. It was dumb to misunderstand her Fascination with pain. As I later learned it

Lead to her self-imposed passing on. Passing on, gone. A memory, a hull of her left with her head
In the oven. My semen -- her blood. Pumped up With a full head of steam. I stuck my dick in any willing pool of teen secretion. Lucky, I failed to pass on my idiocy. Unlike Ms. Sylvia.