me speaking, talking, whatever, what-have-you
of my life and its facets
as if there is something original
more than anything my stories summon laughter
from you. I intend this and abhor it,
for what its worth.
It means a lot to me, and have you noticed? Sex appeal visits me only on dark occasions;
I hate this. I want you to want
me in the sunlight.
I want someone to want me in some light,
someone like you but less broken by me.
little chance of that with me typing, talking,
whatever, what-have-you, here by myself,
sad and unoriginal, my dick deprived,
my skin still longing,
my tongue moved only by words.