Poem About Lust and Porn Sex Addiction

*Trigger Warning – contains elements of suicide, pornography, masturbation, and vulgar language.

This Is Not Love


I've fucked you
through the screen countless times.
Jerked and came to you,
even though you don't know my name.
Smirked in devilish delight
at your lack of limits,
and the way you smile, giggle, and moan
in pleasure during the most obscene acts.

But as I search for you
across the web on this dark night--
in between the thumbnail images of you
riding cock with so much vitality--
I catch a disturbing headline.
It seems you weren't having
nearly as much fun as you had let on.
Twenty and dead, slayed by your own hand.

And my own hand is still wrapped around my cock,
lusting after your naked body
but sickened by what my pleasure cost you.
You were someone's daughter,
someone's sister,
someone's friend,
and now you're gone.

But despite my emotional grief,
this selfish beast within me
can't stop wanting to see
you get railed from behind one more time.
Because the screen, like a glass curtain,
disconnects me from you;
it allows me to strip you of your humanity
and view you as merely an image--
a moving picture I can claim as my own,
do what I want with, and hang upon my wall--
instead of a precious child of God.

Bile rises in my belly.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I feel so disgusting, so dirty.
Porn is not healthy;
it is not harmless fun nor necessary sexual release.
There's a young woman who's deceased,
and all I can think about
is using her ever after she's dead
to get whatever pleasure I can
from watching the life
get fucked out of her.

This is not a fun, sexual feast.
This addiction, this craving
has reduced me to a beast--
no more than a selfish animal
driven by unrestrained desire
and confined by the chains of lust.
Yes, it's exciting and thrilling,
but I know in my gut
that we were created
for so much more than this.

This is not love;
this is a perverse sickness
that spreads by convincing your conscience
it's natural, nothing but fun and games.
Have we no shame,
lusting and feasting off
another human's pain?

This is not love,
but its ancient enemy,
consuming without giving,
leaving both performer and observer
wounded, lonely, and empty.

Justin Farley

Anyone interested in my published collections of poetry can find them on Amazon.