Pleasure's Pressure Poem by Archana Subbaraman
Pleasure's Pressure
Blood whooping through thighs,
Viens and vessels getting high,
Body reminds me of all the touches.
Soon mind decides to leave the clutches.
Buried alive under the rotten past,
Marinated with dust of trauma that lasts,
The smell of death hung upon air.
Wish life had treated me fair.
This impure body will soon decay,
To the hell, I'm on my way.
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3/12/2026 1:19:41 AM # 1.0.0
