The Artisan

Fuck these words
I work better with my hands
and my tongue
and my lips tracing patterns, running trails
from your shoulders to your hips
Only in my mind, of late

But I cannot be shaken
I know I’ve done you well
Devouring your body in little bites and kisses
Coaxing out ecstatic, sharp replies
A moan
A gasp
Your arched back returning to my grasp
My breathy words of adoration spilling hot air onto your skin
Heating until I return from running trails and tracing patterns

This prose seems so contrived
Compared to spouting sonnets between your thighs
Tracing patterns
Running trails
Poems of adoration 
Nay, worship!
I’m better with my hands
But better still with my male appeal

Silk turned satin
By the moisture of your magic
Gliding
Penetrated
Dividing your venerated portal
A mortal concern though you saw fit to scream me "God"
But how odd…

I’m still on page composing
Instead of grinding, licking, showing you
That despite how I move the emotions of this pen
If we could put these words aside
I work better with my hands