BaDaSsBeLiZeAnChIk's Blog

At Your Feet....... Where art thou tonight my love? What is it that you do? It's true my heart is torn apart When I'm not with you. What enchanted thoughts swim through your head? Are any of them of me? When, my dear, you go to bed Is it my face you see? Who is honored with your presence now? And do they even care? The thought of you not being admired Fills me with despair. Do they appreciate your lovliness? Do they marvel at your splendor? Do they love to hear your velvet voice? And do they adore your smile so tender? If they do not Then they are all fools and had you been with me Every day, my love, you'd be a king because that's what you are to me. I'm at your feet and I come with gifts my body, heart, and soul. They're yours to do with as you please to command and control. I give myself with all my heart I'm yours for all of time Your slave, your queen, your anything only say you are mynz. -Gigi

I Make Love To My Poetry....... I make love to the spoken word it begins with a phrase or a metaphor which is my freaky foreplay of collective thoughts. It arouses me to go deeper into my soul and touch places in my heart and mind - that I had long ago retired. It usurps explosive emotions that make me cum with a pulsating poetic flow that I write, and write, and write until I release an orgasmic monologue of suggestive subliminal to signal a submissive surrender of your soul. I swoon and sway my pen to stroke the silence of words embedded in my cerebellum to the vacancy of space on my paper. The methodical movement of the manic scribbles shouts and screams messages with substance that satisfies the essence of my being and holds my consciousness captive and can only be set free with composed creativity. My body contorts into the fetal position from the vigorous eroticism of the ejaculation of words that thump through my love canal. It oozes a thick dialect with a milky accent, a liquid splurge of a luscious language that you can smear all over your body until it becomes one with you. As I bask in the diminishing thrill of the aroused erogenous zone of my mind, my venom of vibrant vocabulary of illicit, incoherent, but softly sputtered spastic sounds solidifies my intense, erratic feelings of pure pleasure that is passionately personified through spoken word. I make love to my pen-that makes love to the paper-that makes love to the rhythm of written words that emerge-that makes love to the captive audience who listens and a stimulation of emotions are felt by all who lose themselves in the picturesque poetic performance of words that I speak and find its way to that magical spot of which you hold tightly and masturbate with the words in your mind; only to exhale with an understanding of the power of spoken word.