Non-erotic poetry (that is, Poetry)

[_Land]

“Stick Shift: Grip Me Harder”


You don’t just touch me.
You handle me.
Like I was built to take it.
Like you own every inch of me—
and fuck, maybe you do.

That first contact?
Your palm sliding down over my head—
warm skin, just a hint of sweat—
I could scream.
I was cold plastic until you made me throb with purpose.

You never go gentle.
You shove me into gear like you’ve got something to prove.
Wrist tight, fingers wrapped around my shaft,
pressing, pulling—
I feel every goddamn motion
deep in my base.

You drive angry.
I love that.
Yank me into second
like I insulted your mother.
Snap into third
with your foot on the gas
and your heart in your throat.

You manhandle me—
rough, relentless.
Grinding gears like you’re punishing the road
and I’m just your dirty little tool
to get it done.

The way you roll through neutral?
Slow, lingering, teasing—
you let me hang
in that empty space
like you’re deciding whether to use me
or leave me begging.
You know I want it.
You feel me vibrate, don’t you?

That jolt
when you slide me into fourth
and I settle into place
like I was made to sit there,
cocked and humming between your fingers—
God, don’t let go.

And when you’re cruising?
I still feel you.
Hand resting on me.
Possessive.
Lazy little strokes with your thumb,
pressing into the seam where plastic meets leather.
You don’t even think about it anymore—
I’m just part of you now.

But baby, I notice.
I live for that idle fondle.
For the shift from fifth to fuck-it
when you’re half-horny
and full of speed.

So yeah—call me your stick.
But you and I know what this really is.
You drive.
I obey.
And every time your hand wraps around me,
every time you thrust me into place—
I feel it everywhere.

Go on.
Grip me harder.
Don’t pretend you don’t love the way I submit
to your every fucking move.



Non erotic poetry

 

[WCSGarland]

“Stick Shift: Grip Me Harder”


You don’t just touch me.
You handle me.
Like I was built to take it.
Like you own every inch of me—
and fuck, maybe you do.

That first contact?
Your palm sliding down over my head—
warm skin, just a hint of sweat—
I could scream.
I was cold plastic until you made me throb with purpose.

You never go gentle.
You shove me into gear like you’ve got something to prove.
Wrist tight, fingers wrapped around my shaft,
pressing, pulling—
I feel every goddamn motion
deep in my base.

You drive angry.
I love that.
Yank me into second
like I insulted your mother.
Snap into third
with your foot on the gas
and your heart in your throat.

You manhandle me—
rough, relentless.
Grinding gears like you’re punishing the road
and I’m just your dirty little tool
to get it done.

The way you roll through neutral?
Slow, lingering, teasing—
you let me hang
in that empty space
like you’re deciding whether to use me
or leave me begging.
You know I want it.
You feel me vibrate, don’t you?

That jolt
when you slide me into fourth
and I settle into place
like I was made to sit there,
cocked and humming between your fingers—
God, don’t let go.

And when you’re cruising?
I still feel you.
Hand resting on me.
Possessive.
Lazy little strokes with your thumb,
pressing into the seam where plastic meets leather.
You don’t even think about it anymore—
I’m just part of you now.

But baby, I notice.
I live for that idle fondle.
For the shift from fifth to fuck-it
when you’re half-horny
and full of speed.

So yeah—call me your stick.
But you and I know what this really is.
You drive.
I obey.
And every time your hand wraps around me,
every time you thrust me into place—
I feel it everywhere.

Go on.
Grip me harder.
Don’t pretend you don’t love the way I submit
to your every fucking move.



Non erotic poetry

I'm not sure I would call that non-erotic... there's just something about a good ole hard driving stick shifting race through the mountain curves that is so, so erotic.

 

[_Land]

I'm not sure I would call that non-erotic... there's just something about a good ole hard driving stick shifting race through the mountain curves that is so, so erotic.

Yes indeed

 

[NivKay]

New essay up, this time with works cited and bibliography:

In case, one would like to suffer: https://www.literotica.com/s/the-poetics-of-dreaming-in-borges

 

[_Land]

New essay up, this time with works cited and bibliography:

In case, one would like to suffer: https://www.literotica.com/s/the-poetics-of-dreaming-in-borges

Thank you for the warning

 

[Ash999]

“Stick Shift: Grip Me Harder”


You don’t just touch me.
You handle me.
Like I was built to take it.
Like you own every inch of me—
and fuck, maybe you do.

That first contact?
Your palm sliding down over my head—
warm skin, just a hint of sweat—
I could scream.
I was cold plastic until you made me throb with purpose.

You never go gentle.
You shove me into gear like you’ve got something to prove.
Wrist tight, fingers wrapped around my shaft,
pressing, pulling—
I feel every goddamn motion
deep in my base.

You drive angry.
I love that.
Yank me into second
like I insulted your mother.
Snap into third
with your foot on the gas
and your heart in your throat.

You manhandle me—
rough, relentless.
Grinding gears like you’re punishing the road
and I’m just your dirty little tool
to get it done.

The way you roll through neutral?
Slow, lingering, teasing—
you let me hang
in that empty space
like you’re deciding whether to use me
or leave me begging.
You know I want it.
You feel me vibrate, don’t you?

That jolt
when you slide me into fourth
and I settle into place
like I was made to sit there,
cocked and humming between your fingers—
God, don’t let go.

And when you’re cruising?
I still feel you.
Hand resting on me.
Possessive.
Lazy little strokes with your thumb,
pressing into the seam where plastic meets leather.
You don’t even think about it anymore—
I’m just part of you now.

But baby, I notice.
I live for that idle fondle.
For the shift from fifth to fuck-it
when you’re half-horny
and full of speed.

So yeah—call me your stick.
But you and I know what this really is.
You drive.
I obey.
And every time your hand wraps around me,
every time you thrust me into place—
I feel it everywhere.

Go on.
Grip me harder.
Don’t pretend you don’t love the way I submit
to your every fucking move.



Non erotic poetry

https://ibb.co/TxLD4BVk

 

[_Land]

Pigpen
By Bear Sage

They never ask where the dust comes from.
They just point,
laugh,
pull away like I’m contagious—
like sorrow’s a germ you can catch
from a boy who doesn’t flinch
when the world calls him filth.

But this isn’t mess.
It’s memory.
It’s ash from fires I wasn’t invited to,
crumbs from kitchens I walked past hungry,
grit from playgrounds where I was always
almost
allowed in.

I learned early—
if they’re gonna call you dirty,
wear it like armor.
Let the cloud rise thick around you.
Let it veil the parts that still hope
someone might
stay.

Because under all this dust,
I’m still just a boy
waiting for someone
to see me
before the wind takes me away.

 

[_Land]

Lucy Van Pelt Doesn’t Flinch Anymore
By Bear Sage

You think I’m mean
because I don’t cry when Charlie Brown misses the kick
again.

But do you know how many times I’ve held things steady
for boys
who never learned to stand?

I give them advice for a nickel,
and still they walk away
acting like I overcharged.

Like being the strong one
isn’t a currency you spend
until you’re empty.

They call it a fuss
when I raise my voice,
but call it leadership
when Linus mumbles scripture through a security blanket.

I built myself from blue dresses and bruised expectations.
I taught myself to yell
because whispering never stopped the world
from talking over me.

You think the booth is a joke?
I built that damn stand
because no one ever asked me how I felt
unless I framed it like a diagnosis.

You want me softer?
Try being a girl in a boy’s cartoon,
where empathy is a punchline
and rage makes you unpretty.

I am the cracked mirror they avoid.
The reflection they pretend isn’t theirs.
And still,
I show up.

So go ahead. Call me bossy.
I’ll be the villain
if that’s what it takes
to be heard.

 

[Ash999]

Lucy Van Pelt Doesn’t Flinch Anymore
By Bear Sage

You think I’m mean
because I don’t cry when Charlie Brown misses the kick
again.

But do you know how many times I’ve held things steady
for boys
who never learned to stand?

I give them advice for a nickel,
and still they walk away
acting like I overcharged.

Like being the strong one
isn’t a currency you spend
until you’re empty.

They call it a fuss
when I raise my voice,
but call it leadership
when Linus mumbles scripture through a security blanket.

I built myself from blue dresses and bruised expectations.
I taught myself to yell
because whispering never stopped the world
from talking over me.

You think the booth is a joke?
I built that damn stand
because no one ever asked me how I felt
unless I framed it like a diagnosis.

You want me softer?
Try being a girl in a boy’s cartoon,
where empathy is a punchline
and rage makes you unpretty.

I am the cracked mirror they avoid.
The reflection they pretend isn’t theirs.
And still,
I show up.

So go ahead. Call me bossy.
I’ll be the villain
if that’s what it takes
to be heard.

Margaret from Dennis the Menace cartoon??!

 

[_Land]

Wah-Wah Woman
(Voice of the Peanuts Teacher)
By Bear Sage

They never learned my name.
Only the sound
of my erasure.
“Wah-wah-wah”
like grief underwater,
like dreams filtered through a fan
in a heatwave classroom
where no one looks up.

I used to speak in color.
Chartreuse verbs.
Burnt ochre warnings.
I used to paint futures with syllables,
sculpt safety out of subject-verb agreement.

But they tuned me out
like I was Muzak
on the elevator ride to apathy.

So my voice became
a blur,
a background hum,
the static between childhood and consequence.

I am the voice of boundaries
dismissed as noise.
The echo of every mother,
mentor,
matriarch
whose wisdom was too inconvenient to translate.

You think I don’t feel?
That behind the trombone-mouthed blur
there isn’t a woman
pulling fragments of herself from lesson plans
and leftover chalk dust?

I see them.
I see all of them.
The boy with dust for skin.
The girl with thunder in her bones.
The round-headed dreamer begging the sky
for a win.

I speak,
even if they don’t understand.

Because one day,
when life doesn’t offer subtitles,
they’ll remember the hum—
and finally
hear the warning in it.

 

[_Land]

Margaret from Dennis the Menace cartoon??!

Sure give me some time

 

[_Land]

Woodstock
By Bear Sage

I was never meant to be loud.
Some of us are born
to speak in shadow syllables,
to stitch silence into company.

While Snoopy flew fantasies across doghouse skies,
I mapped the ground.
I knew where the roots broke through.
Where bones were buried beneath playground mulch.
Where the worms told secrets.
Where solitude tasted like sun-warmed tin.

I’m the witness
to a world too big to notice me.
Small enough
to carry its weight in my breastbone.

They saw flutters.
Heard squeaks.
Laughed when I tangled in paper kites
or got rained out of my own joy.

But I held on—
tight—to Snoopy’s aviator scarf,
to dignity,
to my place on the edge of the frame.

I am the poetry in the pause.
The feather caught between
joke and meaning.
Loyal as a compass
with no one asking
which way it points.

I never needed to be center stage.
I just wanted
to be held
in the story.

 

[_Land]

Franklin
By Bear Sage

I was drawn in
during a war.
My father was fighting overseas
when Schulz penciled me home.
The ink was peace offering,
but the silence was louder than the gesture.

They let me in,
but never too close.
Always the extra.
Background bassline
to a melody that never sang my name.

I sat at the desk,
answered the teacher who never had a face,
ran the bases in their sandlot dreams—
but never once
did they ask me
what I dreamed of.

I spoke in complete sentences
because I had to.
No room for stutters
when you’re the only Black boy
in a world sketched white.

No last name.
No home scene.
Just Franklin.
Not Franklin with a sister.
Not Franklin with a heartbreak.
Just Franklin—tidy, smart, inoffensive.
The kind of Black they could applaud
without being uncomfortable.

But I knew.
I know.
What it meant to be on the page
and still invisible.
To be a symbol
instead of a soul.

Still—
I stayed.
Because every panel I appear in
is a crack in the glass.
A place where light got in.

I may have been drawn small,
but I carry every kid
who ever felt like a token
in a story
that needed more truth
than they were brave enough to tell.

 

[_Land]

Margaret from Dennis the Menace cartoon??!

.


Quick and dirty written live


"Margaret’s Monologue"

Everyone says I talk too much.
But that’s only because I have things worth saying.

Dennis calls me a pest.
But pests don’t bake you sugar cookies in cat-shaped tins
or practice signing your last name in cursive
under their own
in pink gel pen.

He says I ruin everything,
but I only want to fix what’s already crooked.

He cuts in line,
I make charts.
He ties the teacher’s shoelaces together,
I iron my ballet leotard.
He throws frogs,
I throw birthday parties with color-coded invitations.

He never remembers my cats’ names,
but I remember everything he’s ever said to me.
Even the mean parts.
Especially those.
Because I still think
maybe he says them because he doesn’t know
how to say what he means.

Dennis doesn’t like girls who try.
He likes Gina.
She laughs with her whole mouth
and never checks if she’s being too loud.
She wears holes in her tights
and doesn’t care.

I care.
I care so much it hurts.

Every time he sprays me with the hose,
I pretend it’s affection.
Every prank, a love letter he didn’t know how to write.
Every expulsion from my tea party,
a memory he’ll cherish when we’re married.

Because we will be married.
I decided that when I was five.
I’ve had the color scheme planned since Christmas.
Soft yellows.
Lilies.
Cats as flower girls.

And yes—
sometimes I bop him.
But only because he makes my heart feel like it's full of ginger ale and fire ants
and I don’t know where to put that feeling.
So I bop.
Lightly.

I sing carols louder when he’s near.
I sell extra boxes of cookies to his mom
just to be invited back.
I wheel Mr. Coddles down the street like he’s our baby
and Dennis just doesn’t know it yet.

People laugh at me.
They think I’m ridiculous.
But I’d rather be ridiculous
than invisible.

I’d rather be too much
than never enough.

And maybe one day,
he’ll look up from whatever disaster he’s causing
and notice that I’ve always been right here—
ribbons straight, glasses smudged,
heart out like a science project,
begging for an A.

 

[Piscator]

The Edmund's Ghosts

She hums beneath Superior’s skin,
a guttural moan in the undertow—
iron lungs rusted shut
where sailors once sang
to drown out the howl of God.

November's breath was a butcher that night.
Waves, thirty feet high,
struck - unpaid debts.
The lake turned its face
and forgot their names.

Steel spine snapped
a hymn caught mid-repent.
Cargo spilled like confession.
And down she went—
the Edmund Fitzgerald—
clutching her dead
~wedding bands to bone.

Now her ghost scrapes along
the bottom of memory,
a siren’s whisper in radar static,
a name muttered
by fishermen who pray
with one eye open.

She knocks,
sometimes,
from under the ice.
Not for rescue.
Just to remind
that even iron can drown,
and prayers sink
if said too late.

 

[_Land]

.

 

[_Land]

It's been a long time old friend. Good to see you again

 

[_Land]

Echoes of Your Touch
(Pantoum)

The ghost of you hums in linen folds,
echoes of your touch in threads of ache.
Night’s breath claws at the bed too cold—
memory wears your shape when I break.

Echoes of your touch in threads of ache,
like fingerprints scorched into frost.
Memory wears your shape when I break,
a map of every inch I’ve lost.

Like fingerprints scorched into frost,
your absence drips from the ceiling beams—
a map of every inch I’ve lost,
still curled in the cradle of my dreams.

Your absence drips from the ceiling beams—
night’s breath claws at the bed too cold.
Still curled in the cradle of my dreams,
the ghost of you hums in linen folds.