I’m reblogging this to prove that my handwriting isn’t as completely as shitty as it looks in the last post… haha.
I will do an unplugged September piece for you guys… promise.
Linguistic Love she wrote to impress a poet whom she never met, and how she let his words undress her only gave more dominion to her suppressor. he slid her panties gently down when she’d begin to read his poetry aloud. the poem’s lovely structure was a whisper in her ear how he yearned to fuck her, and along with his lyricism and rhythm it’d determine how soft his thrusts would be given. each form he used was a different position. she was addicted to how he licked her essence with his diction, and the content wasn’t really what mattered as long as the imagery left her preservation scattered. the words he’d wield and weave and how they’d flow established how each syllable penetrated her soul. with ease, he’d eloquently make her wet, and she’d drip slowly with his roving rivulets of sweat, which was his rhetoric bleeding from each line that’d unriddle the labyrinth inside her mind. inevitably, the arch in her back concaved with elation. her orgasm was his climactic effectuation. what will always be her lecherous curse is his command of language and…
