"Erect"

"Erect"

Fingertips that press ripples
with the power to rub and caress
or cripple with firm grip...
...little concern for
when my head eventually
swells or drips freely.
You just serenely take me
in your grasp,
clasp
then lubricate the shaft
as if it sounds to you
as good as it feels to me.
You can have your fun
and tease
but please:

Don't squeeze.

Be careful, baby.

This ego is sensitive.
My habits are elastic
but this masculinity...

...so fragile.

Be decisive
not divisive as your hands travel.
After all,
discarded drops
will only mix with gravel.
Potential in these seeds.
Hands cupped and closed in creed
then formed to fit my needs.

Friction at odds with speed.

Take your time, baby.

So much is too much
at once for me to process
and that stress
I'm too stubborn to communicate

until my ego is stroked.

Share saliva with the fibers
but don't let me choke you.
I've said enough to play it tough
but I won't dare provoke you.

Your stroke
like a flame stoked for warmth.
My feet float
and you take note
of things I've said you aren't
in hopes of downplaying your worth
so that your skills remain mine only.
You'd measure my girth
and ask me what it would take
to make me eventually spurt
and I would say "Time Only."
Vague with you in spells
because I know damn well
that showing the other hand
means that things won't end well

and I need this nut, baby.

Less ashamed to admit that
after guaging your interest in me.
A little lotion
and slower motion
for a head this swollen
than you offered in the beginning.
I've said the words
you love to hear
just to keep you grinning
and you graze my veins
and ignore the stains.
I guess we both are winning

right now, at least.

So me of me
to see you struggle
through the strain
as your muscles increase in pain
hoping that soon it would drain
and I would meet you halfway:
Letting go of this pressure
I've acquired for no reason
other than to serve my manly worth
and eventually come for you

for a change.

I love how good you make me feel
but I take that for granted.
I cause you stress
then make a mess
and leave you empty handed.
I deny your role in this
as if someone poked holes and ripped
to perceive that you control me.
I confuse passion and perspective
and that incurs neglect from me
but I deflect the opportunity
to acknowledge your means of unity
until I again feel vexed
and hope that this text
will not be left on read

because no one empties my head
like you.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Body Oil"

"Body Oil"

Your Scent.
Your Signature.

Similar to a familiar voice
choosing to speak to me.
Air moving about with care
as if your very essence
knew me
better than the mind ever could.
Never would mistake that smell.
Not one I've come to know so well
like a trail leading me back home.
Scent that has tone
when smeared across the body
that I'd privately
take the time to taste.
One inhale
and a faster pace
of heartbeats impart me
to chart the quickest way
back to your airspace.
In closed quarters,
I've enjoyed this scent
in places it wasn't meant for.
Spent more room on my palate
than your talent for placement
can permit you time for.
I'm more than a little obsessed
admittedly
and figured we
could make use of
what was left in that vial.

Can taste your scent for miles...
...Mouth Watering Signature

and I your replenisher.
Finisher of every morsel.
Parceled out to potential others.
Inconsequential lovers

but it stunk on them.

On you it hovers
like a feast after my famine
and this beast could not imagine
gorging until walls have dampened
if for the sake
you never happened
to walk in front of me.
Your scent comforts me
yet playfully tortures me.
Warmth I need
so I've sought for speed
and fought through beads of sweat
in hope that I'd net
just a hint of you.

Would love a fistful of hair
but just to know
you were once there...

Fancied the thought of us laying down
but just to know
that you were around...

Would love to see your face
but to breathe in
and recall the very taste
of a place where you once stood...

.....for a scent
a signature
to feel this good...

...would you wear that again
for me?

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"He Drank His Own Tears"

"He Drank His Own Tears"

If he could climb,
he'd just play in the dirt.
No concern for the girl
in the pretty pink skirt.
Oblivious as his father's blood boils.
Mysterious this wet soil.
Wonder his greatest possession.
Force fed lessons about direction.
Hand slips from the jungle gym.
Hard smack and some broken skin.
Pain,
Confusion,
Fear in his eyes.
Chastised as he began to cry.
Ran to Mother's arms making room.
Grandmother kissed and rubbed the wounds.

If he could swim,
he'd stay up for air.
Tightened trunks
and tied back his hair.
Floatables.
Only one pair.
Advised by Mother to take care.
Skipped the line and forced a turn.
Forgot the goggles and his eyes burn.
Kept the towel.
Asked him what he'd learned.
Young but noting
Dad's lack of concern.
Concentration on the task at hand.
Flinching after every raised hand.
Old fashioned method to this plan.
Determined to raise the perfect man.

If he could drive,
he'd decide to walk instead.
Layers of anxiety
strewn about his head.
Father's threats breathing down his neck.
He's just trying not to end up dead.
Eyes swollen.
Turning red.
Can't remember all that was said.
He hit the brakes in a turning lane.
Red lights he would speed through.
He can't breathe.
Dad intercedes.
A myriad of mistakes to see through.
Time treated like an excuse requested.
No acknowledgement of patience neglected.
Their relationship a prism reflective
of the frustrated
and the dejected.

If he could cry,
he would do the same.
Flashbacks
when they'd call his name.
Furthest corner in a dark room.
Composed himself.
They'll be back soon.
Traded warm milk for sour mash.
Haunting repression of the past
where boys don't cry
and men still choose
to hold on to it
and ignore all cues:

Recusing himself from a reality
where excusing oneself is no travesty
and needing some help is formality.

Forced Masculinity Is True Tragedy.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"I Can't Wait On Deliverance"

"I Can't Wait On Deliverance"

This plane is not high enough.
From this window seat,
my eyes can actually
look down on the skies
and still see way too much
below me.
Placed yourself there
purposely
as if to service the assumption
that I think I'm better than you.
I don't
but you do.
I don't stalk
but you do
through whichever means
will end in gaining my attention
regardless of whether justified
because a lie never cared
to concern itself with
whether or not the truth
was still standing there.

This train is not compact enough.
Crammed as much baggage
as my spirit could manage
as my mind could muster
as my heart would heave and lumber
but even in tiresome slumber,
I am awakened by the stabbing sensation
of you fighting me
nearly to the station.
Would smear your self conceived pain
across entire nations
if it would leverage guilt upon me.
Contrite when you call me
but boisterous in disagreement.
Can't seem to agree with
the difference
when your opinion you've made fact
and mine you've deemed a lack thereof.

Less pace.
More acceleration.
I never want the past
to keep up with the rest of me.
The best of me
while born in that
is not
in fact
tethered to anything
you would claim responsibility for.
Liability as blind
as the hand over the eye
will still have to confront the very fear
that demands that tears are cried
for every confidently crafted lie
told when you make a want a need
so cry until your eyes bleed
while I gain as much speed
as I can find serve with
but my nerves with
this swerve
and that curb
that neither of us could ever pass
only ensures that there will be a crash.

Even this car isn't fast enough
I guess.

Quickened by the desperation
of a long sought after separation.
These pills don't last long enough.
I'm still chasing the high.
This liquor isn't strong enough.
I've drank myself dry.
This patience isn't long enough.
I still often wonder why
my heart needs this much time
to let go of what I never wanted
to be mine to begin with.
If ultimately left to contend with
the all encompassing transgression
that is our pointless plot
of countless interactions,
I'd burn off the apprehension
and forcefully snatch away my ascension
because it goes without mention
that this life is not big enough
for us both to coexist in it.

Don't be angry.
Don't be sorry.
Just be distant.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz