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he tries to sway me to the
wind that blows in the opposite direction
Giving me pillow talk
in the early morning where burning aurora rises
in the east. and I come
admittedly pulling away from
the things which hurt me
I am saddened that he
has not called to learn of my location. sickened
that my presence isn't readily missed.
so I go to the way
which the wind blows me
drifting vicariously and gently
I land on hundreds of threads
of sheets. subdued to the
masculinity and pure divinity
to which the wind blows softly in my ear.
he speaks of the truth which
my heart cannot bear but my mind
yields the truth. that my soul
has the human desire
to be a woman. to be loved.
I deserve this.
I deserve the passion which i feel
and the mighty hurricane to that
the wind becomes. the electricity
and pure satisfaction of
breathing daily
a renewal of fresh air.
I inhale.
deeply. carefully. meticulously.
the gusts are too strong.
I disclose that my wings are broken
yet he holds me tight to be the air
from the wind which I take flight.
I breathe. In the moment.
Anxiously cautious of the
unknown paths which the direction
it takes me. torn in this moment,
knowing that a facade is before me.
i relish just this one moment.
i share intimacy.
i hear a heartbeat in its breath
the resting calm of newness
freshness and effervescence
bolted my body in spiritual
uprising. I. deserve. this.
this...craving. This pure desire
to blow in the direction
which the wind goes.
he sways me.
moves me.
surprised me.
analyzed me.
ever so tenderly, my body is pure goddess
in the eyes of this wind
curves and brown skin
magnetizing lust born
into the world of freeful sin
born of this gift of free will.
am i wrong to ignore the touch
pushing away a chance at being free
i mean-a facade is the birth of this wind
sadly spilling emotional jargon to the display
of my essential being.
I want more. More.
my feet have become concrete bricks
that becomes pain effortless
of denying the freedom bliss
that blows the wind.
weighed d
plagued by careless tears. years wasted
manifested in the numerous counts
hidden in silent cries by the night,
followed by the craving of the
human touch.
this touch.
a touch.
a man's touch.
i am thirsty. this leaves a taste of a parching
throat while I swallow the adverse drought.
leaves are bare. simply naked of the touch
required to grow and sow beautiful
seeds of flowering beauty.
the grass is not greener
the time is not sweeter.
i still feel a breeze,
entering the pores of my
skin in the desire to awaken the freedom
he tries to sway me. move me
in the opposite direction
acknowledgement by any other name
the source of my affection.


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