i go through torrential downpours of need
and want
and suffer the droughts of cups unfilled.
i try to use third person,
to talk at myself, to make things more tolerable,
but i use the same words, locked, repeating
he stares at beauty from mind’s eye, he feels repose and lack of creativity by the mold of sex drive
he tracks
he folds
he whines with turning of gears.
he fights restriction, he feels creative, he postures his hands accordingly in the mirror so that i can see.
i feel creative; i wash with desire. i wriggle in bed and bother no one.
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