The clock is stopped inside my thirst -
wound tighter than a drum,
tension stretching 'cross my skin -
my mind struck deaf and numb.
The craving drains my thoughts of air -
I cannot keep them straight,
your teasing words, provoking looks -
surrendering my fate.
On hands and knees, a willing tool -
my aching need submits,
abuse my body at your whim
and tear my lust to bits.
Steal whatever drive I have
and grind me into breath,
throw me on your feiry grate
and ride me to my death.
Use me for your passion's sake -
and drag me 'cross the floor,
reduce me to unholy means
and treat me like your whore.
Nail me to your soaking gate -
don't worry about the toll,
erect me as your work of art -
I'm giving you control.
Copyright © 2011 Stone Bryson. All Rights Reserved.
Written January 2011
Known in many (albeit small) online circles over the past 15 years, Stone Bryson is a poet, storyteller, and essayist. He is working on various writing projects, and lives what he describes as an 'analog life.' He resides in Jackson County, Missouri.