Puddling Up

 
This morning, I caught myself
 fantasizing about being a poet.
My imagination,  lead me to
 believe it was true.
My thoughts stealing bits  of my
mind, making me believe
It was real ,  
Erotica, was my vice,.whatever
 I desire, I could live
 by spilling ink, on fine paper.

Colors would change the
 deeper I went into the sights
sounds, and flavor of the ink.
Cognitive,  tactile, emotional
bending  me into shapes so  
pleasurable  I began to rely
heavily on it.

Women or men were equally,
delicious.
I could live my life, on a hot
 plate of chosen desire.
Realism was pulling on thick
nipples
  Penetration was an exceptional
 treat offering
Whatever, I wanted.

I holed up in my loft, day
and night I needed more ink
poured over me.
I no longer needed fine paper.
It ran down my thighs,  between
 my breasts.
Coating my box with the heated
colors
I began to delve further,  into
 sweet perversion, with clips
ropes,  ties, and clamps.

Deeper still, I crept into the
art of Japanese knots.
Wrapping, twisting corded jute,
to redden my skin.
Suspended, I would hang as
circulation began to tingle
 Between my lips,  the knots
felt good and wet.

How far could I go?
Wave after wave satisfaction
conquered
Drip, squirt, , puddling up.
Endless possibilities before me.
was this real, or still my fantasy?