You are a piece of wood
With a bristle brush attached to the end
You make my blood flow fast
The black ink sitting on the desk
I am your paper
Seeing the brush and ink gives me goose bumps
The brush now in his hand moving towards the ink
I now feel the coolness of the ink on my skin
My eyes close slowly like we just started making love
He tells his story on my body
I am his paper
I stand there naked while he stares
However it is me getting off
This is gratification
Now I rest like I just had an orgasm
I blame my father
He cursed me by introducing me to this life
For he was the first to tell his story on my body
I was his paper
While cursing me he blessed me
This curs brings me such satisfaction
Liz Berrios
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sensation/
