Between each letter, each word, and each sentence lies an entire universe of wonder and excitement. It's a realm filled with electric possibilities. It's an empty space where dreams balance on the razor's edge of becoming. The almosts are continually calling me back with an insatiable hunger for the climax, the surge of dopamine that temporarily quenches the fire raging in my veins. My synapses are raw, ravenous, and filled with desire. They are whores who beckon the endorphins to bridge their chasms, to be plunged deep to ignite a crescendo—a primal, ecstatic scream of excited sexuality as euphoria floods my body, a raging torrent bursting, coursing through this living biological machine. I reject the hollow whispers of "never was," those cowardly liars spinning for the timid, the idle minds, the flocks that roll over and bare their soft underbellies to be claimed by the audacious. I am no sheep. I am a lion, roaring, demanding the fulfillment of my desires, bending the weak ones to my will through their surrender by my unrelenting force. I am The Lion—tell me, who are you? I'll tell you who you are. You are the open spaces, my prey, my concubines; you may feign resistance because it heightens your desire, but that simply feeds mine; I will invade you. Resistance is futile.
This is a Prose Poetry item. By the commonly accepted definition, Prose Poetry is a continuous thought stream with no line breaks.
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