5.2
August 2, 2014

My Resurrection. ~ Christopher Rota {Sexy Poem}

Author's Own.

She was everything I always wanted,

singing away as she flaunted her body,

bringing my days from virginal and mundane to original and naughty.

Still longing, but a long way from home

and from that special somebody,

a king fit for her throne.

Belonging to me and herself alone,

nobody else,

bringing me heaven itself and closing the door to hell’s kitchen.

I was itching to touch her,

to make fact from our fiction.

Frustration grew from every direction,

as did my expression of awe and she saw it, my prime directive.

Jaw dropping atomic,

eye popping cherry bombing,

of selective yet seductive sections,

a whimsical sonnet of perceptions,

precipitated erections.

First came sexual tension then sexual friction,

she craved my direction and I her submission,

but my mission lacked vision,

we lied (side by side) by omission,

so began my regiment of repetition.

She shattered my pipes and became my addiction.

We learned from and yearned for each other’s desired positions.

Through intuition, we mended and ended our dire afflictions.

With love, lust and affection,

we achieved imperfect perfection.

Firstly, we entered our state of regression,

we let out our aggression and fears of rejection.

Our carnal connection helped me build a bridge to get over myself

and the ego’s projection.

I started to question the infection growing in my reality.

Did I mean to be mean? Was that my fallacy?

Or was that just me?

Suicide by frailty, a fairy tale fatality.

I felt guilty for the infidelity of other lovers,

their natural selection and induction of the art of seduction.

I envied their ability to bury emotion,

entertained that notion but refrained from it’s practice,

for I’m not made of plastic.

Repression of feeling was not appealing enough to swallow,

too tough for digestion, so I suffered with indigestion

and pressed on in depression, denying my glum reflection.

Suddenly I felt numb, young and dumb.

I had to succumb to my own innocence,

my intimate state of inanimate intimacy with no mate made me an inmate.

Into me I had to see in a sense,

my own identity,

the dissection, the death of me.

Regrettably, both literally and hypothetically

but it had to be spiritually instead of surgically.

In my head I knew this inherently

so hurriedly I humbly and grudgingly dropped to my knees,

you heard my pleas, my screams for help, but the pain did not lessen

for I had yet to learn that lesson.

Still your impression was felt,

as if given an injection of self esteem,

I began to flow with the stream

and started my progression.

She’s all that I had seen in my dreams, she took all my attention.

There was no fear left to adhere to

as she took away my breath and apprehensions.

She left me the happiness of emptiness,

the courage to be free and to flee my empty nest.

I gave her all of my good and bad intentions, assorted, beautiful yet morbid and wicked,

but a kind premise still existed within me.

I didn’t see my inherent supremacy, I was too busy suppressing and surpassing both good & evil

in their comparison or competition of vigor,

I would’ve died there, rushing through the game of russian roulette with a full chamber of anger

and regret and a hair trigger pistol,

pissed off at all of it, thirst never quenched,

drenched as the olive in the alcoholic’s martini, at “le fin,” the end of me.

Just then amongst this illusion of dissolution and confusion,

came a welcome intrusion from my seclusion,

from pale lips came her whisper, so I listened to my wiccan goddess, my goodness,

my own deviant vixen.

I was stricken by lust, my pulse would just quicken.

I was her victim, her vitamin,

her only man amongst many men.

My sword became mightier than my pen,

I was a lover not a fighter then.

Now, I am the embodiment of both.

I took her body as if taking an oath,

physical, spiritual, mental and mysterious growth came to us in spurts.

She straightened out my kinks and embraced all of my quirks.

She often lurks in my mind with her body of works.

I still stumble over her presents

although she’s not in my presence,

her works of magic are beyond value and worth, she gave birth to my romance.

Her name is the sound of my resonance,

the sound of sentiments I avoid so I’m void of resistance

but extremely persistent.

In an instant, I overcame our difference in distance,

she left behind her essential essence and reverence,

my heart is her permanent residence.

 

 

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Apprentice Editor: Brandie Smith/Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Author’s Own.

 

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