Sex life of writers
Writers come too soon. . .
again and again.
Never ready
and always out of breath,
their words are hung
longer than their pencils
over the sheets.
They rise like beacons
of intense concentration
but are quickly extinguished
with a mere touch.
The slightest contact
or merge of intimacy
between leaded instrument
and soft white skin lying beneath
brings a sudden gush…
and it’s over.
A last gasp
and they’re drained,
left to feel selfishly inadequate
and impotent.
Yet, they come again
to repeat the folly
knowing that the loneliness
of their forbidden trysts,
the guilt and disloyalty
of abandonment,
and the many strings attached
to this stolen-in-the-night passion
will make them victims of the dawn;
when morning’s echo recalls
that this was. . . literally,
an act of egotistical need.
No, it’s more than a need,
almost an instinct,
like self-preservation.
They are driven
by emotions
that feed on their hunger,
their passion, to create.
Their humanity calls them
to subjugate the language
into a verbiage of hope
and beauty.
Sometimes writers last long enough. . .
to realize their dream.
Then, in that moment of creation,
they are surprised
and breathless.
They have penned words
that penetrate,
that rise from the sheets
to touch another,
and culminate in a deep
shared satisfaction.
Some might call it
ecstasy,
but I. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . am spent.