deepundergroundpoetry.com

Pressing In
Sometimes I lie here with my cat and read
The verses I subscribe to and I find
My hand slips to my hip; and seems to feed
A certain instinct in me, that's inclined
To make me agitated; it gets worse
When I espy how words luxuriate;
I bite my lips and think I could rehearse
The passion that I sense; I'm no ingrate,
So type my comment first and, then, I slide
My hand inside my panties or my basque;
And feel my sticky digits, when inside
My underwear; and seek questions to ask
Which will only be answered when supplied
By be-juiced pressings into my divide.
The verses I subscribe to and I find
My hand slips to my hip; and seems to feed
A certain instinct in me, that's inclined
To make me agitated; it gets worse
When I espy how words luxuriate;
I bite my lips and think I could rehearse
The passion that I sense; I'm no ingrate,
So type my comment first and, then, I slide
My hand inside my panties or my basque;
And feel my sticky digits, when inside
My underwear; and seek questions to ask
Which will only be answered when supplied
By be-juiced pressings into my divide.
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