Proverbial

It’s a trickier situation when a lady is walking infront of you. Especially when the said lady has an excessively huge bum. The bad part is that there are people watching from the sides and well they know what they wanna see. So just minutes ago, I am on the street heading home then I mistakenly come across this lady swaying like she’s getting paid. Her arse (I had to use that word) paints the whole place. I try passing her but whenever I pull that she increases speed too, when I slow down to get some distance between us, she slows down – I am caught. I call on my ancestors for help but some gibberish voice in my system drys my throat to remind me that I am a man now. The next corner isn’t near and I know I’ll start having raw images which I am trying to avoid. 
Funny thing is, I try desperately to look away; right-left side, up and down but I still can’t help noticing the humongous chunk of flesh almost falling and I quickly wish I had powers. Don’t ask for what. See, the worst thing is people are watching — a thousand scenarios play out. Then she abruptly stops and what I see nearly nails me to the ground. I feel like a matryr and I need a confession booth. Her bum shakes vigorously and I pass her — it’s then I realize I wasn’t breathing properly. I heave and she chuckles. 
Now I wish the walk would have been longer to perfect my amateurish voyeurisim. 
I am lodging a complaint on the ban of bums in the streets, if you know someone who has one, tell her to stay home or else … (yes that is a threat) 
Okay let me finish that, or else … I’ll follow studiously (google that nkt) next time.
I’ll walk the same road tomorrow, my dreams are valid

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Eddy, Why do you Write?

I write because it’s the only real
thing to me. That purple penchant
glove of warmth that tickles my palms
whenever inspiration strecthes its
lazy seductive thighs for me to f***
it. Its the only thing I have … my
forte, my shade and light. I write
because nothing seems realer to me
more than my words. And my words
are my life. I fail miserably at everything else, including being human
but I thrive as grand falling of tsunamic waves on writing. I do it
because I have to live. This is my life.
My story and My demons. Angels
rarely exist and I am a loud
disconnect (sic), I shudder at being
normal and like everyone else – the
thought alone makes me rue painfully … I am damn narcissistic and egotistical about word orgasm.
If words were to be tactfully skinned from my fountain — I would die. But I have to live. I try to find on whose field, on whose palm am I scourging on — yet the full uncertainity of everything else rears its ugly buttocks under my nose and farts loudly making me sneeze mistakes, effing mistakes. What I mean is, writing is the only color that
burns my pupil and its what I see. I
am constantly improving and I would
jest about that each time and dime I
can and even whine about it, I simply
can’t loose it. I sleep scared of what
might happen if I were to sleep and
loose my russet-twine of amber
satisfaction. No, that can’t and
shouldn’t happen or else I would turn
this sorry world upside down with burdening it with guilt (I am serious, that’s a threat) It’s where I can skin anyone and anything that incesstantly begs for my attention.
Its a sporadic and intense fellatio
when rain read (words) spangles in my
head. Take writing away from me and I am dead. Stop overthinking … you would only take it only if you are mashed. Writing is my life. My passion.

P.S. I accept opinions and I work on my shit day in, day out!