Brown
I live for each hug
And die for each kiss
I breathe for the smell
And long for the touch
But yet,
When alone
I sit and question
What I truly miss
It’s not these ties
But her deep brown eyes.
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From mouth to pen to paper
I tend to write
What i dare not speak
A trail of pen
My mouths only leak
I can write onto paper
With no regret
The words I once whispered
And hoped to forget
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Needful Wants
She dances on his mind as if a memory
But the truth be told, it makes no sense
It’s only mentally
Her voice upon his ears as if birds do sing
But the truth be told, it makes no sound
There’s no echoing
Her face a mere reflection in his mirror
But the truth be told, the picture fades
He’s never seen her
His self protected being, a victim too
But the truth be told, as he screams aloud
“Fuck, I needed you”
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(3 votes, average poem rating: 5 out of 5)
Writer Wrong
Who are you to be upset,
It’s my business to be so angry
You sit and scold, belittle me
When it’s my hurt, my hate, my misery
You have no right, I’m not mad at you
It’s the world around me, not a word or two
My right, my fight, my battle to win
Just stop right there, I need you friend
So let me bitch, just let me moan
Like a rock in the hand, I will be thrown
Into the water, where I’ll leave my mark
Just remember my bite is worst than my bark
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(1 votes, average poem rating: 4 out of 5)
Turning Leaves
Burning deep inside
so much harder to hide
this train wreck of a ride
leaves him wanting
Feelings oh so true
he knows not what to do
the flames burn hot with blue
leaves him turning
Desire, soft to steel
imaginary feel
this idea all too real
leaves him breathless
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(1 votes, average poem rating: 5 out of 5)
My life… a life out of many…a lie usually, waiting for death…a happiness I*ll never find…a love a hurt I bleed I smile…This life will never find happiness not today never tomorrow maybe only in the next I’ll pray for a new day. This will be MY letter to the world that never wrote back. Confessions of truth that only paper will meet. The words placed on this paper shall set some part of me free. A small part… Even if only a small truth I will find peace in only a small piece of truth if only it could be found. A small piece of me dies with every lie I try to live… to live… the choice I had no choice in…the choice I never would have choose…the choice of life..so I try.
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(1 votes, average poem rating: 5 out of 5)
Love Letter
A Love Letter
I Wrote to the Paper
A Love Letter
My Paper Wrote to Me
A Letter Wrote of Love
As if a letter of Love Wrote to me
A Letter Wrote of Love
Held My Bleeding Heart
A Letter Wrote of Love
Holds his Destiny From the Start…
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My Flower
If my world was but a flower
I*d water it to death
My world was but my flower
Waiting for a rest
I gave my flower too much care
I watered him oh so unfair
My flower needed only air
He died a drowning death.
If my world was but a flower
You*d water it to death
My world was but my flower
Waiting for a rest
You gave my flower too much care
You watered him oh so unfair
My flower needed only air
He died a drowning death.
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Heaven
I want to go up to heaven
when I die, later on.
When the Lord lays me down,
later on, later on.
I want to go up to heaven,
later on, later on.
I want to go up to heaven
when death stops for me.
I want to go up to heaven.
That is my plea.
Sweetly,
in the arms of my Saviour.
I want to go up to heaven
when I can no longer be.
I want to go up to heaven,
to eternity.
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(1 votes, average poem rating: 3 out of 5)
toyboy
When Wendy,
an antique in the saddle
& partial to toy boys
saw daddylonglegs, clearly dyslexic
bounding up the stairs she said,
‘my mobile vibrated in my handbag.’
Wendy, an absolutely exquisite bitch
with a wishing magnet up her arse
threw her eyes skyward and said,
‘shoving cynicism aside, size matters!’
‘That exquisite elusive dragonfly alighted on me,’ she said,
‘& he immediately began dry humping me hard & fast.’
Wendy always thought short & thick does the trick
but this young lusty lover had the most enormous cock,
the ultimate dummy, a giant lollipop.
Next morning the agonizing ecstasy of internal bruising
was a tough readjustment for her clit-quivering chemistry,
but she thought smiling at her smug image in the mirror,
‘Who needs the wine list if you can get pissed on the dessert.’
‘There was only outside chance of turning this
into something more than a quick shag,’ she said,
on reflection over coffee with her lady friends,
‘I remembered better sex with my wabbit.
That actually makes men totally redundant.’
After their concerned comments she said,
‘thank you kindly for all your eloquent
insightful dissection of the situation.
And no, there are no notches on the bedpost,
that as you know just damages exquisite woodwork.’
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