This poem is about a female understanding the power she has.
Power
lies placed between
pride, pillows & panting.
It’s a harvest
of hot honey,
milky down moist, muscular thighs
and scented with summer-sweet sunset.
Purple-pink petals picked
one
by
one
by lusting eyes
lit with another loveless conquest.
What’s mine
is mine
& hasn’t been used a while now
except by me,
for me.
Sorry friend,
not for you.
Your lips spread it,
rock it out loud
like you want to take it back.
I?
I do not stutter.
It’s my power,
sexified by sinners,
pained by few.
Uterus met
rarely,
Clitoral stimulation
sends me nowhere exciting,
just leaves me salty at lips,
savoring taste.
Taste you seek,
I am.
I bend over bars for a drink.
I get, instead, an auction for my ass,
though bidding is silent.
My ass,
those who enter need beware.
I scratch at your salvation,
scream in rhythm to your rhymes,
forceful,
raging,
soft snow on season’s arrival.
Bite me,
harder
or watch my expression as I decide
– let me say that again –
IF I decide
to give power to you,
& let go,
releasing,
shaking for you,
squeezing your arm as you asked.
I will give you galaxy.
It’s placed within my garden.
And my friend,
there ain’t no pansies growing here.
Many want, many taunt.
I’m seeking one
to be man enough to take it from me,
then tenderly return it.
Though I fear
I will remain
forever fingering flowers in my garden
without you.
Wicked Sarcastic 