poetry

Fair Warnings

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Trust me,
the way he lusts for me
makes my fabric come undone,
I blush, profusely when he asks to enter my plush Palace,
merely with his crown–
or the dialect of his tongue.
I think he see’s this fire,
set in my eyes,
past my aloofness to explain,
notices how serious I become in thought,
knowing,
he’ll scratch up my thighs,
while calling my name.
I must say images have crossed my mind
to take him down,
because he refuses to take in,
the answer no,
like he see’s that which I hide,
that wild voyueristic,
uninhibited side,
that teasingly lashes out,
yet warns him desparately,
not to go.
He worships the ground I walk on,
but prefers my pedestal High,
he values my inner dinner-
imagining the conviction of its cries.
He chases me in his dreams,
to unleash his unbearable lust,
never the wiser,
that I have enough passionate thoughts,
roaming untamed–
for the both, of us.
Like the start of a slow ballad,
into a thunderous, Rasta type rush.
With all the special skills​ featured,
in between,
that’ll win the arrogance, of my blush.
Cute, how he’s unaware of my sinister moves,
the workings,
from the inside,
this well lubed machine,
‎that awaits his incoming glide.
Sneaking up smoothly
like expensive vodka,
ready too be consumed.
As my grin and cursed hyde, 
suckingly,
pulls him in.
Effortlessly enjoying him in every direction,
engulfing each inch,
before cascading,
down,
his erection.
I’ve warned him many times,
this,
crushed velvet is a game-changer,
but his lust guides his hopeful wings,
placing him in sight of
prewarned danger.
I think he takes it lightly,
seeing a challenge to this..
I keep warning him though,
that which I know,
and especially that
I’ve witnessed.
Like the outcome of the strong talker,
unable to walk away, after the first encounter, 
the too proud and confidently hung,
those unphased by tightness and them that can go on especially long,
blah blah blah,
please excuse my back,
as I fast forward,
through this redundant song.
Ingredients of this circumstance,
makes him look inside,
for the recipe-
too long.
As I joke to myself,
That he’ll “insert his heart,
and be searching for his pride”.
Believe me, I’m not bragging,
just passing on a word to the wise, arrogance left years ago,
regarding the mysterious curse between these thighs.
I walk the walk, so I love to talk til the saga comes alive.
Think of it this way,
if I give it to you,
like I want,
just know
I’ll have to kill ya.
As my insides scream,
to enjoy his lust,
my mind reminds me, 
of what the past has taught, 
that’s too never again,
trust, anything outside this treasure box.

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By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright © 2017

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