love the repeats

It wasn't my first, second, but my third

each memory, vivid, relived in my head

accidentally stomped on my heart 'til it bled

while sharing my story in written word

first hand stories, not something I heard

should entice a reaction, unless you are dead

this has nothing to do with depression or dread

teasing the flesh with a feather of a bird

or get physical, I can take the aggression

smile when I hear leather against flesh, whack

isn't long before you have me bound with rope

time loses all meaning when we're in session

with an opened hand you hit my chest, smack

a rough kind of tender is the way you grope

Petrarchan Poem

Copyright © 2014 by Patrick B Vince