Ripe For The Picking

This poem is something new written about something old... Sometimes I get bad poetry out of bad situations. It's a lose-lose situation.

I feel as if I have to put my palm to my chest
to keep my heart in place as it's pounding
and pushing it's way through my pores.

I am despondent... My sense of self diluted
by your overbearing touch.

I'm trapped like an animal baring teeth...
While your eyes as thick as sharpened blades
sink continuously into my skin.

Once I was driven by awe and beauty...
But I moved too close to the sun,
and now I'm rotting under the
coarse graze of your unwelcome hand.