I like those girls with the long, painted nails.
Their hair perfected, breasts and ass
bobbing and jiggling like ninety pound whales.
Once I had dolls with eyes of perfect glass.
When I opened their heads, a hole grinned back.
They are like a plague of Americana,
and perhaps, in truth, I am a bit jealous.
But they are not as innocent nor as promising as I.
I wait to cloak myself in night, far from the bolting
daily blame of living my controlled corporate welt.
washes away in the uncontrolled erotica
When I wake, this would have been a dream of occult.
The act itself rescues me from certain fate
Death of boredom, if you will.
The tightness against my wrists
and the pain is sweeter than the taste of
my own blood seeping in my mouth.
I am the perfection of shamelessness,
rising against him in my own filth.
Here, I am not in control.
I am just a girl lost beneath him, drowning in chaos.
Sweet and innocent, red locks and green eyes.
Little pink bows in my piggy-tails
and I stare wide eyed.
The taste of darkness penetrates deep against my soul.
Pure beauty when I can not escape the binds.
Hands thrust above my head bound in cold steel.
I cry out but taste only leather in my mouth.
Those places others would shy away,
I beg to go farther.
This is now my religion, my faith, my god.
The world does not pound at me in the night.
It does not scream to be fed my blood.
I lose who I am and become another girl,
with small, pouting lips.
And innocence swaying in her hips.
Their hair perfected, breasts and ass
bobbing and jiggling like ninety pound whales.
Once I had dolls with eyes of perfect glass.
When I opened their heads, a hole grinned back.
They are like a plague of Americana,
and perhaps, in truth, I am a bit jealous.
But they are not as innocent nor as promising as I.
I wait to cloak myself in night, far from the bolting
daily blame of living my controlled corporate welt.
washes away in the uncontrolled erotica
When I wake, this would have been a dream of occult.
The act itself rescues me from certain fate
Death of boredom, if you will.
The tightness against my wrists
and the pain is sweeter than the taste of
my own blood seeping in my mouth.
I am the perfection of shamelessness,
rising against him in my own filth.
Here, I am not in control.
I am just a girl lost beneath him, drowning in chaos.
Sweet and innocent, red locks and green eyes.
Little pink bows in my piggy-tails
and I stare wide eyed.
The taste of darkness penetrates deep against my soul.
Pure beauty when I can not escape the binds.
Hands thrust above my head bound in cold steel.
I cry out but taste only leather in my mouth.
Those places others would shy away,
I beg to go farther.
This is now my religion, my faith, my god.
The world does not pound at me in the night.
It does not scream to be fed my blood.
I lose who I am and become another girl,
with small, pouting lips.
And innocence swaying in her hips.
