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    Love, Pain, Passion, and Lust

    Beneath the Spin * Eric L. Wattree
    Love, Pain, Passion, and Lust


    She walks alone, sweet woman-child,
    her sobs flow warm against the dark;
    Her need is love, not merely passion,
    a mighty fortress, her broken heart.

    Quivering bodies and breathless moans,
    she remembers with great delight,
    but the heat of love is the only flame,
    her lusting soul craves late at night.

    Hungry arms yearn for her shuddering body,
    to embrace her tenderly with all their might;
    Shivering lips lust for her succulent passion,
    as she cries out desperately into the night.

    But only true love can quench the thirst
    that burns red hot, and deep inside,
    so she faces the pain, again and again,
    and late at night she cries.

    Masculine shadows of delusion and lust
    caress their egos more than her pain,
    for her convulsing body quivers not for them,
    but for her fantasy
    of a warm and gentle man.

    So, with head held high, by light of day,
    but, mournful eyes, that do betray,
    unspent love, and a breaking heart,
    and the fear of sobs, when day turns dark.


    She's dark, she’s passionate, and she's lovely,
    but she doesn't know herself:

    She doesn't know
    the extent her smiling eyes
    devastate this love-sick heart;
    The way they dance in the moonlight,
    subtly beckon,
    and betray the depth
    of her sultry passion.

    She doesn't know
    the ecstasy of pleading moans
    on a humid, Summer night, or
    the maddening pleasure of glistening bodies
    entwined in erotic flight.

    She doesn't know
    the hot breath of passion,
    as it whispers between her thighs;
    The gentle kiss, the sting of bliss,
    the pain of pleasure
    that burns inside.

    She doesn't know
    the agony of lust
    while suspended in endless time,
    as she yearns for sweet release,
    while desperately clinging to
    the sweet sublime.

    She doesn't know
    of frantic begging
    for that of which she's run,
    of the animal that leaps inside of her,
    as flowing chills
    begin to come.

    She doesn't know
    the embrace of madness
    as her trembling loins
    begin to spill . . .

    doesn't know of love,
    but on this night,
    her pleading eyes,
    say she will.


    Eric L. Wattree
    [email protected]
    Citizens Against Reckless Middle-Class Abuse (CARMA)

    Religious bigotry: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does.

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