Profane Poetry

I was told poetry can’t be profane.

If it is, all it becomes is a dirty, senseless shame.

But poems, like people, get boring and stuck,

If sometimes you don’t throw them down and give them a few fucks.

See, I have this problem of not being how I should.

When a boy passes by, all I can see…

Is the words and prose, like a swirling rose,

Of the multiple ways he can fuck me!

I want this poem to be vandalism, something you have to watch,

Draw your eyes to it, shock you, make you feel ill.

Look at this glass, so perfect and intact,

Then I hit it with my fist, and all you see is my crack!

I’m so full of art, it feels unreal.

Stretched to my limits and I think I'm going to squeal.

I release through my hand and out my pen,

I’m jizzing all over this page and I can’t wait to cum again.

I never know where the words are going to go,

Like a lover with a blindfold, all you can do is go with the flow.

Every dirty thought I have goes through pen and onto pad.

Trust me as your lover.

Even if things go a little bad.

My prose will never hurt you, unless you like it rough.

Then I have handcuffs in m y words and whips in my mind.

Just don’t cry when things get tough.

I like the hard stuff, never know what you’ll feel or find.