You said
Bukowski's poems
feel rough to you
for me, he's a god
you don't know yet
how roughly
I'd like to fuck you
would you welcome
my rough hands
on your angel-like body
could my fingertips
sore and with calluses
(I play the guitar quite often)
caress your
sweet sweet face
you feel so heavenly
something rotten
in me
makes me want to ruin
you.
YOU ARE READING
Broken words. {poetry}✔️
Poetry---------------• Not once he had felt the obnoxious remind of not being enough. Especially around 6 p.m. When she was gazing at the evening sky covered in its pink and orange light admiration filling her eyes. For he was convinced she never looked a...
