I have a therapist.
She's been with
me since birth.
Watercolors on my
soul.
She spills black, and
blue; sometimes
red.
Blood is to
bright on the white
page.
I blush for the
both of us.
When all is out for
the caged moments,
I collapse and rest.
I dream in metaphors,
and I taste the
sweetness of her
inner thigh.
Tangerines and treehouses.
I wake to find her slurping on
my soul, I seize her and she
greets me with grief or
gospel music, or
obscure memories of
vaginas long gone.
We take this wild
ride together
forever learning from
our symbiotic bond.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 2nd, 2025 22:20
- Comment from author about the poem: On my YouTube channel, I read from my recently published books. They are: Sleep Always Calls, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and Sleep Always Calls. They are available on Amazon.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 42
Offline)
Comments3
Graphic and gritty this poem runs through the back allies of memory to bang on the back door of a muse that has no fear. Lovely Thomas
Thank you, my friend.
You are most welcome Thomas
Ooh, a bit of symbiosis going on there! She's quite a lass! lol. I might swoon.
Thank you.
You have such an extraordinary way with words Thomas .. Enjoyed to the hilt mate .. Neville 😎👍
I appreciate it, my friend.
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