I stare at a blank screen
obsenely cursing for the words to come
and you dare haunt me with 
you lyrical genius.

What does it take to have the 

GRACE

in which you have,
in print,
in words,
in deameanor,
        your class,
                       unparalelled.

Your muse,
                  my soul,
your flesh,
                my desire
your blasphemous taunt
                                    my earnings.

Rape and pillage my body,
my shame will be your conquest.
Take your battel prizes,
leave nothing that is yours..
To the victor goes the spoils,
     and my fantasy is that

                           you will