all the girls are empty, without men.
all the girls are empty, without the cocks to fill them.
we wander around with our holes—
void of all substance, duty, or love,

without the cocks to crown us.

the woman without a sense of purpose,
a sense of worth:
she wanders around incomplete
without the cock to complete.

without the penises to fill us,
we drip wet with our soaked vaginas,
needing that hard cock to close us
to keep us steady, sane—leveled.

sprawled upon the sheets of some
modern beau’s bed
thinking—“Thank God,
I have a sense of purpose.”

s./j. goldner

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sense-of-purpose/