Bad Poetry (only poetry that rhymes is good poetry)

my version of meditating.
instead of clearing my head.
i focus on a single thought.
i am His whore.
i must be patient until next
my mouth and my pussy can be filled
with His cock and His fingers.
and until then, must make do with memories and mental recreations.

His fingers can do this thing to me.
that i can only guess,
feels similarly to a heroin rush.
and now i sadly hate one of my favorite things.
the motherfucking Olympics are ruining airline fares.
And i fear until that world spectacle is over, i can only try my hardest
to remember feeling my soaking wet pussy gripping his hand
and begging to cum, please, Sir, please?
and hearing those words i so crave.
“yes, cum for me.  good girl”