madpoe317

The Fiction That Love Depicted

I was called a young bastard last night,
run rampant with infatuations.
But should I deny a feeling I haven't felt in more days
then a calendar can count.

The situation is fire, pain and beauty.
I love the lovely covers.
I love the lovely colors!
I crave the heat and warmth.
I should ride the melting course!
I need to brake down barriers and battle for my core!
Battle to the source.

Sore of sorts
I'm sore of sorts
Of kinds
Kind of like when wood kindling is turned to ash.
Left for dead!
Kept in form but lacks all substance.

A young bastard riddled through infatuations.

That's me and I'm Rampant!
Ravaged!
Rattled, enraged and famished.
I crave charred flesh.
I hope I'm smothered to death.
I want a hope, a wish, a touch, a tease, a kiss.

She closes my eyes and whispers so softly.
She caresses my chest for my heart to taunt me.
She nestles my head and our lips mesh tightly.

We melt into each other, lovers true and partners
We our the missing numbers, the answers that we wonder.
The dreams that make us shutter.
The fiction that love stories predicted.
And of course the advious.