I wrote this a while back for an entirely different thing. It's really, really dirty. Just a warning. . .
Sanctimoniously supercilious in your
Silly stroking of your
Swollen sex in a
Soliloquy of a sloppy staccato in sound,
Straining for spoils of sex and
Sweat and the sticky satisfaction
Swimming straightway for celestial sin,
Sick with succulent strawberry sensuality.
Screw yourself in sweet seizures,
Slipping sinistrally to your seat and
Sliding a slick shaft up your scape,
Simultaneously snuggling your sac.
The letter P
Picture this,
Picture perfection,
Picture, perfect poppies,
Picture, perfect pink poppies,
Picture, perfect pink and purples poppies,
Picture, picture perfect pink and purple poppies,
Picture, picture perfect pink and purple poppies picked purposefully for you.
People picture perfection, they prefer it.
Probably because it's positive, and it's predetermined; it can't be changed, it's permanent.
Perhaps people should do away with their imagined, immaculate, preconceptions of perfection and perceive the poised beauty of the dynamic, ever changing, natural world.
Perfection is powerful, it is prominent, it is potent, and it is potentially perilous but perfection isn't plausible.
Playing on meek and feeble minds, it preys on the weak, inspiring panic, pushing people to pursue it when in reality they cannot.
Perception of perfection comes only in accepting the purity of the imperfections.