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it's a story, one about the warm days, when the world was in chaos, but my heart in allays.
a word was exchanged, a song delivered, a lyric when composed, then a soul shivered.
a travelling mind, a homed heart, the tone was soft, but the lyrics tart.
the days have passed, and the weathers changed, daylight turned to twilight, and the cold unchained.
this is a story, a story about me, a story about we, a story about who i'm meant to be, this is my story...
this is the story, the story of a bird free, wings across the sky, one hopping tree to tree, this is the story...
the one of who I am, of where I am, and where I should be, this is a story, this is my story.
beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, but how beautiful they must have been to see beauty in that chaos.
am I alive, or am I dead, am I real, or am I woven, do I exist on my own, or to this world, am I cloven?
is it my life, is it a dream, am I awake, am I asleep, is it the height of life, or depth of fancy so deep?
The river courses through, unbidden and unseen, its waves like silken strands—quietly beautiful, never asking for admiration.
Sex isn't an act, it's a feeling.
A feeling of being with her, a feeling of together an emotion of bond that tether. Intimacy in between a couple sweethearts, as if fabricated albeit the divinity's arts.
A pledge persistent to be held, an ardor potent for me to yield. complicated sentiments of voyeur, motives me by your amour.
I will rise up the sea of diffid, so you too unwrap your blankets of reticence, I will fly to the skies of demural, can you accept my soul; take off your abeyance?
I will welcome your passion, so you would drench in my lust, I am to depart from my lies, so be it your deception I can trust.
My body, a peaceful sanctuary, you'd be my zen, me; a poem, an art, and you, the pen.
Inked with blood, smudged a flaw, a prowess broken, yet a creation of awe.
your world painted, a universe of lies, everything woven with falsity, in the deceit, my hope allies.
I'm a book open, my pages to everyone, stories within, touched by none.
I'm a book open, my chapters about pain, how a soul was broken.
A tale, a story of a heart frail, an empty shell, a lifeless body prevail.
This is a chronicle, about my life, a stage of war, mind and my heart strife.
I'm a book open, my pages, worn and torn, my silent story, unspoken.
I have been asked,
of who I was...
a universe of questions,
barraging one after another,
skeptical to my life,
and my emotions in smother.
unveiling myself, I answer the world,
I am me,
not what you want me to be,
my life not what the society see.
I exist, with not me, I disagree,
the world; a trap,
and me, an escapee.
I am me,
who I was meant to be.
lolita...
young and voluptous nymph was I,
a maniacal mind and a provocative body,
my head, wrapped by the thirst of sex,
and heart filled with desires.
the constant arousal,
and my inclination towards intimacy,
while my curves paved the path of thy body,
my psychotic mind, weaved another fantasy.
i was born, or so was I told,
i made myself a woman, warm cunt; mind cold.
a sane celibate you argued,
a lunatic, a vamp all I saw,
you saw my potency in the mirror,
and I eyed a corrupt lusty sinner.
a person, itchy and lascivious ever,
frantic mind, deliberating sensuality forever.
where others found pain,
I espied erotic delectation.
my life became a racy novel,
the pavé's slut; my afflation.
standing at the dawn of today,
I narrate my story looking back,
an insane mind, rather more demoniac,
my hidden anecdote,
dance of the dervish and a skins' song,
and the journey of a nymphomaniac.