The sorceress that made my dick hard.

Her love handles are engraved with pale stretch marks
Slim stomach, small price tag of fat tucked into her high-waisted jeans.
Face: average
Body: Average
Her calves are skinny and her feet look a size 4
Her hair a mane, voluminous, dressed in hair grease
Her eyes sparkle, not like a newborn baby's but
I would fuck her.
I don't want to fuck her,
I wouldn't go out of my way to fuck her.
But if given the chance,
and she came asking for my dick,
I would most calmly and humbly take her to the closest toilet
and fuck her doggystyle with one foot on the toilet.
It's not that I see her as a 'sexual object',
I'm just not sexually attracted to her.
But I would fuck her.
I would because of the ultimate fact that
She wants me.

I sense it when she gazes at me thinking I have no peripheral vision.
I sense it every time she slowly whooshes past me,  seeing a need to "touch" my open flesh.
I sense it when she says "Hey, how was your day?".
Nobody cares about how my day was.
Others say I'm dreaming, hallucinating
But how can you show proof for instinct?
The Law of Attraction is something you just know,
Not something you can show.
It's her attitude, it's not her seducing me.
It's the way she's so positive about salivating on my erect penis.
most people don't do that.
Most people do vacuum phalluses but
most people don't talk about it.
That turns me on.
Her mindset.
It's easy yet enticing,
the right balance to take on any challenge.
It wants to lock me down and allocate me my punishment:
Cumming in her face then never seeing her again.
I may be doomed but
This, I can live with.

The jokes that give me an erection,
The play-fighting that gives me an erection,
It's all part of her mind's plan to rape me.
It's working.
But she has to complete the final phase;
She needs to ask me to have sex.
It's the choice that we all have to make in order to grow,
"Should I ask to fuck or nah?".
I could never chase my prey just to catch some tail,
I may stay for the meat but then I shall recluse back into the wild.
I could never ask her to give her the leverage of thinking that I want her.
My ego would be torn, my pride shredded,
My reputation, folded and permanently creased in my mind.
Plus I don't have the balls to ask her out of my deep-seated fear of rejection and fragile emotional stability.
But if I did ask her, she'd probably say yes.
But alas, it seems like we're probably not going to fuck.
Makes me feel sad but not defeated.
A conquest is never failed if the troops were never rallied.
I hope she changes her mind down the line and contacts me.
If not I'll just have to keep fucking girls that fit my standards to forget the pain.

Feeling Filtration System (FFS)

I opened my mouth,
My soul almost poured out
I caught it just in time
No one should know what i REALLY think about.
Unless I bring it out through sarcasm or irony
or say "I'm joking LOOL" so they don't hear the real me.

STOP TAKING PICTURES OF YOUR FOOD. IT’S SCARY.

I sat on a park bench
Not much wind, evening yoga classes surrounding me,
Overcast, amber sunlight falling though gaps between autumn leaves.
I looked to my left and saw a rippled, cracked umber tree
no actually, I think I saw two or three...
I looked away
I just wanted to breathe for a sec,
Then i chose to look back, swerving my head 
the trees weren't trees anymore in my mind
they had become a quick upload for Instagram likes.

Marseille

The bastard heat picks on my skin
White hot light rays blind me between each building's shadow
The ocean evaporates mid-air - the air itself rains down onto my skin,
It is moist.
So is the breeze from the Caspian sea that licks my skin,
Caspian kisses it with tongue. The slut.
The mountains grow beards of forests
The highways sizzle the bottom of affordable rubber tyres
A landscape hot as hell itself.
The French continue to smoke yet I see no clouds in the sky
Down on earth I see ripe french and Congolese women with voluptuous  backsides, 
uneaten baguettes, golden, that crack at the touch 
and expensive wines from old dusty cellars of their heroic WWII veterans.
(Secret: The dust makes the wine expensive. Still good though.)
I'm at home, I'm at peace.
Pass the croissant, the butter and the Algerian waitress.

The legend of lil’ Samson.

I am 7 years old,
I am a champion.

My bed is tagged with golden piss,
My juice-boxes are served cold,
My homework list is as long as my Christmas list,
My head grows, filled with lies my teacher told.

I am 7 years old,
I am a champion.

My self-esteem fluctuates between low and high,
My hands blacken with mud playing in the sun,
My personality attracts no friends no matter how I try,
My nights are long trying to ignore my dad lashing my mum.

I am 7 years old,
I am a champion.

My grades are to be hit high as required,
My dream is to ride a motorbike,
My crush laughed when I told her it was her I admired,
My classmates called me gay so I tried to take my own life.

I was 7 years old,
I am a champion.

I love neck

I love when I get sloppy neck in the toilette that affects the sex for every minute I collect inside the mess between her legs, wrestling like it’s a contest, holding her against her chest, putting her under arrest while fondling her breasts wondering who’s next to jump into my bed, eat a fancy dinner, connect, digest and undress to let me inspect the wet muscles they flex under their dior-scented dress.