This Is For Jared

Jared, it is now coming to me that I became a Nobel Laurette poet when I was 16.  I wrote a poem to you in the night about the fight today.  Make it right and find it now and put it online.  I am now trying something for the first time.  I will write a love poem to you that uses sexual imagery.  I am very modest and shy about sex actually, and so I am being very brave with my gifts.  Please punch anyone who says salacious things about me after I write this.       In the night I fight the breathe that you create in the mist.  I am the gift of your lungs, and your body is the proud structure that God made you to be.  I am a flower opening in the spring.  I love the way your neck is strong as the marching werewolves around you try to prove you are wrong.  The carotid artery pulses a beat of a drum that says others are intruding and dumb.  I sense your evolving erotic gifts as I see your possessiveness of my body become not just imagery, but a manifestation of my worth to your soul.  Your bold presence in my mind field is felt in my quickening step and heartbeat as your heat is felt inside of me.  I rock when I am numb, and you grab me with a loving caress from behind as I cook.  I feel your desire and I submit to your touch as we begin a merging and melding that evolves the scenes and our gifts, simultaneously.  We find our minds at that point and continue our meal.  Later we celebrate our energies in my bed chamber and have the privacy of our thoughts and feelings with one another.  Images become real and touch becomes an expression of kindness, respect, and love for the first time in my life.  My pulse rises and your chest becomes real beneath my quivering hand. I feel your air intake in time with mine and you find a safe way to express your adoration on top of me that does not hurt my aching spine.  You wish to actually bring me pleasure and not pain.  You are not insane while all around us actually are.  Even children want to intrude on our scene and unwronged avengers who wish to be mean as well.  Implements of torture are in their hands and hearts, but we use sexual warriorship and concentration to protect ourselves, and our privacy.  It is a Herculean task.  Even with all clothes on, we feel like the whole world's pawns.  I get you to focus on the heat in my eyes as we send telepathic heat to each other and our thighs.  My eyes turn from blue to green for you.  A beat evolves in my breasts and hips, as I feel your teeth on my lips.  A rhythm of night meets us in a trance state, and we do not feel irate at anything.  We find the whispers of passion enduring and the absurdity of our unwanted guests melts away as do their threats.  We move through items of clothing quietly and quickly and you feel me for the first time in the night.  I do not fight your werewolfery.  You bring out the siren of my sweet, submission of vampire.  I am your queen in this domain and in my bed, we do reign.  We find the right way to honor our needs with respect, and culminate at the same time as lighting and thunder clap outside as if to give us a standing ovation.     My judgement is that this is about a C++ poem.  Computer industry is intruding on my privacy and imagery, thus putting a sexual poem on the internet is impossible and I am too shy to want to let them see all the passion that is in our private imagery moments together.  Dr. Jennifer K. Mayer 112