Justin's Poetry Corner

Friday, December 5, 2003

Rapture

The air between
lovers, hot and sweaty,
throbbing with anticipation

Naked bodies
embraced, trembling
with passion

Eyes locked
upon each other,
sharing the dream

Showing everything
in one touch of
lustful bliss

mind, body, and secrets
laid out on sticky
sheets of satin

No pause for thinking
anything in the moment,
showing everything in the rapture

My inspiration sucks, Oh so well

She nibbles my earlobes,
her fingers trace circles
down my chest,
a kiss on my neck,
words slyly placed
in my ears,
telling me of the
wonderfully nasty
things she will
provoke me to do,
she dives deeper
into my soul,
searching for
my deepest fantasy,
She knows all to well
what she will find,
my body and mind
naked to her touch.
stripped of my shroud,
wanting more and more,
her hands stroke,
her body grinds,
her tongue lightly licks,
her lips envelope,
her head bobs to the beat
of my throbbing
member.
She knows
every trick,
every secret,
every fantasy now,
she has exploited me
and I've loved
every
hot,
sweaty,
sticky,
lovely,
moment.

Shafted

Pink,
soft,
drenched
with sweat,
enveloping
his shaft,
shut your mouth!
you want it fast?
how about slow?
SLAP!
how does that feel?
you like it don't you,
just like the slow burn
of a match made in hell,
brought together with
the heated scent of
sexy pulsating,
tumescent,
shaft,
take it all,
and love it,
your screams
echo in dreams,
sent reeling and
you cream,
stopping only to breathe
through the thick, wet,
bandanna tied around
your mouth,
are those cuffs to tight?
Good!
AHHHHHH, shuddering climax.
See you next week slave

Thursday, December 4, 2003

Climax

The lust takes me
in, it's unbridled
passion.
Giving everything
I have and yet nothing
at the same time.
Making me sweat,
shiver,
shake,
and pulse,
for another moment,
caught in the inferno,
limbs flailing,
bodies moving in unison,
all to achieve
the masterful goal,
the epitome of sex,
the...

Climax

The Movement

I sit here
staring at the
blank white walls,
it's like a prison now,
something that was
once called home,
now so bleak and dreary,
the few pieces of furniture
scattered around the house,
no more hustle and bustle
of feet coming and going
through the door,
it's a shell,
this domicile that
once played host
for some of the most
exciting parties
ever seen.
Each and every stain
on the carpet holds
a memory, or even two.
That dent in the wall
from a missed step
toward the couch,
the sag in the ceiling
where the shower leaked,
the broken beer pong table
that hosted some of the
best championship games.
Ah, those memories will
never die.
Almost too many memories,
they crowd this shell
of a house, it was ours.
Looking over my shoulder
through the glass of the
back door, I recall how
much fun we've had,
the good times,
and the bad.
But in this movement
of the song of life,
it is only a bar,
maybe a few notes,
and its time to start
playing a new instrument.