What I wouldn't give
to lay my vision on poetry
sinfully
realistic

Regardless
whether or not
the origin of it
is driven from such exquisite pain
that I'm left alone
to feel nothing less
than Clockwork Orange eyes
staring at the abyss
or be entangled permanently in sadistic wit

a masochist
with permission to view
your passionate masterpiece

a literary disclosure of the most perverted kind
where I'm left
ripping the clothes from my skin
all in the name of
a voyeur's wet dream

but instead I'm left pounding my fist
against the keys

begging...

a desperate attempt to sustain the aching need

to feel

your words momentarily
complete me