I remember amidst the pain that flooded my heart and body a dismal pleasure twirled in the pits of my stomach. A pleasure I had yet to feel as a young teen the feeling I had pulsing within my frame was the pleasure of being desired. Since then I feed off that mixture of pain and pleasure of being wanted seemingly for the wrong reasons. It's to much dismay I recount the times this has driven me into madness, trying to be gently seductive silently begging for lust to take over and them to fall to their knees pleading for only an ounce of me. How I liquify in their arms melt into the nooks and crannies of their bedroom eyes. How it breaks my heart in failed attempts once my brain has given me a proper lashing about being unwanted, about losing my edge or not being good enough looking, down right being pathetic. I realize it's just my insatiable need to be desired, needed, begged for even that makes me feel this way and yet here I lie at 3:24 am believing myself to be to some degree at least a perverted and pathetic young man.
YOU ARE READING
Whims of a weary traveler
PoetryDo you want to know my life? Do you want to read the whims of a weary traveler? Are you too a lost boy holding the pieces of his life in his hands? Read if you dare know the soul of a wanderer looking for home.
