The penis is a [horrid] tool

The penis is a tool
that I own,
but am not proud of.

It decides to take
control when it believes
it’s correct.

However, I
know better than to
allow it to
sit comfortably.

After that which
I am not proud to
have done, I
sat it down.

I looked it
straight on and
told it to stop
its mindlessness.

It retorted and
I twisted it in a
rage that made it
bruise and sting.

I knew I hadn’t
won the
argument, but
I knew that
I could control its
idiocy from making
my decisions for
me.

And yet You use Yours
under the assumption that You
deserve the very best.

You decided to go
hand-in-hand with the
tool in Your possession and
let its wants be
Your very wants.

With both heads raised,
You boldly walk through the door as if
the world belongs to You.

Can You not see it’s
wrong? Do You not
wish for the feeling of
love by mind and not
by touch?

It leads You like the dog You
are, and You are content, as You believe
it is reality.

Yet I, like the moral and logical fool that I am, have chosen
to not spend my time listening to drivel spewed
by the tool whose neck throbs
in a likening of the heart, being the imposter
that it is.
Indistinguishable to You, the tool is
and will be
Your only sooth.

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