Read Poem: Daddy, by Zaric Reed

Sitting here in the darkness, thinking about your darkness and how it turns from purple to pink in subtle increments and how some of the most poignant times in my life were me on my knees, praying to your pot of honey and you looking down at me whispering, “Oh, Daddy.” I thought I was the dominant one, but you knew how to wrap me around your middle finger and how to make me orgasm mentally, even when fully clothed and or milling through a crowd, knowing that you were there.

‘First time you called me, “Daddy.” It was said with such emotion and conviction that I was frightened and taken aback and although I’d been called “Daddy” before, the way you whispered it to me, made me know that those other women were simply pretending that Daddy was me. “I been bad, Daddy,” you said. “Punish me,” and I damn near went limp, ’til you smacked your own ass, showing me what a slave perpetrating a master must do for pleasure of both.

You called me, “Daddy” thereafter when you wanted or needed to get me to stay when I had to go, crawling naked around my legs like a kitty, rubbing your naked flesh against mine. You called me “Daddy,” just to stroke my ego and then you withheld the title, if I pissed you off by not doing what your pouty-ass wanted.

How can one word could be so powerful? And I though that “nigger,”held so much weight and was the most Herculean word invented, but oh no.

You don’t call me, “Daddy, “no more and it’s killing me, rotting me from the inside out and I die every time you call me friend, when I think of the energy that we generated, even naked sticky and entangled on your living-room floor or while sitting across the room, pretending that we don’t know that the other was near.

It’s more than mere dick or pussy, or tongue, lips or assholes it’s deeper. Much, much deeper.

When you call me, “Daddy, ” it’s visceral—it resonates in my soul, a word with such power to be wielded like Excalibur or the spear of destiny and it weakens any army of man, whom it’s directed towards.

You don’t call me, “Daddy,” anymore, weakens me near more than you calling me “Daddy,” but the fact that you may call another man such, kills me and in my arrogant mind nobody’s gonna love you like me.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest