Hail, Poet

The sex of the Poet is the drive.
the loosening of clothes
dropping to the floor
along with inhibitions
and pen caps
starting,
and finishing,
repeating in a constant
overthrowing all to that
unexpected knowing bliss
of ends.

That womanly overcast
of cloudy mind that drifts
past many a failed idea,
suddenly plucks one
out of the blue;
be it oscillating to the heartstrings
of Her unseen audience
or rutting anciently
to a private personal tune.

Starting simple, mixing with distractions
of rushed and punctuated verbiage
to enhance the experience.
But lo’ and behold;
The end is a clear white nothing
of once virginal parchment
that always leaves Her
hand-cramped and panting,

but always longing for the right
set of words
to get Her off.