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108 Double Stitches

Robert Dean Johnson


So tightly I’m wound,

I recoil when struck.

Compressed like a spring.


I’m constantly fondled,

Examined and lifted on high.


A pale white complexion,

red lines all over my face.


I’m beaten repeatedly,

A club of ash, or metal,

will do for some.


A crack so loud,

Heads turn in awe.

So hard I’m struck

I am half my size,

for a moment.

Then I uncoil into action.


I’ve traveled a great distance.

Short lengths at a time, once

In New York I once soared,

Over barriers, into seats,

I hit the ground, rolling

at my lovers feet.


The pain of a hundred collisions,

the joy of thousands is heard.

I endure this agony, for

the greatest of sensations, is

I am the center of attention,
between the lines.

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