The instant our eyes meet in space and in time
And I know I’ll succumb to his touch.
His breath on my neck as he moans in my ear.
The kisses that he loves so much.
The smell of his sweat as he slides across mine
Seem to mix in a wonderful spice.
The cold of the air when my nipples are wet.
He’s discovered my favorite vice.
The hair and the rough of the touch of his skin.
His voice when he’s saying my name.
The sound of his breathing, collapsed next to me.
The look on his face when he came.
Don’t ask for his name, do not ask me to point.
I could never reveal such a soul.
For the stories I tell gather all of my loves.
And describe them as they are a whole.
I stand alone among the crowd
A single tear upon my cheek
My eyes are glazed, my spirit gone
My legs are worn and weak
The smile that was upon my face
That danced when he came near
Is buried deep inside the ground
And all I know is fear
Many questions follow me
The haunting echos sound
I chase the ghosts and listen
But not one answer found
Because I was challenged: A poem / tongue twister…
The pickles of my pickle pack
Are packing perfectly.
The proper way my pickles pack
Is most proficiency.
So if you wonder if the box
Is packed persistently.
All I’ll say is, Yes,
Indeed the pickle pack packs me.
I, myself, love many books
I’ve one for every mood.
But lately I cannot put down
The book that’s labeled “you.”
I found this poem. It is not mine, but I fell in love with it.
Written by e.h
I remember when the world broke in,
To rip apart my soul,
For years after that one event,
I thought myself not whole,
My hours were spent with trying,
To fix it up with tape and glue,
Until one day I discovered,
Everyone else was broken too,
Here we were with pieces,
Of ourselves in both our hands,
So fragile and so open,
That I began to understand,
Maybe I’d been greedy,
To want my soul all to myself,
When it could be a lot more helpful,
In the palms of someone else,
Now every time I go somewhere,
I leave part of me behind,
And collect all of the pieces,
Of others’ souls that I can find,
So when I’m meeting someone new,
It’s not just me they get,
But also tiny fragments,
of all the others that I’ve met,
And my life’s become much bigger,
Now that it’s home to things so small,
And if this is what “broken” means,
I do not mind at all.
I’m nothing but a gypsy tart
That travels town to town
I spread my joy to every soul
I never wear a frown
Today I’m camping in the woods
Tomorrow I’m gone swimming
The next day I’m upon a Hog
As the sun is dimming
You’ll never see me wear my shoes
And usually not a bra
My hair’s a wind-blown tangled mess
I’m quite the fun grandma!
My mouth’s as filthy as my feet
And yet my soul is pure
I’m full of love and nothing else
Just ask if you’re unsure
I don’t have time to write much more
I’m off to see the rest
Come join me if you’d like to go
Who knows my next conquest?
Wind is my drug.
My hands are up in the breeze and I can feel tingles on my arm hairs as we come to a stop.
I wave hi to strangers as we pass and give the sign as other bikes go by.
The air has the stickiness of the summer night in every breath.
My feet wiggle as the smile grows across my face so wide, you know this is my happy place.
All I can hear is the RUM of the bike and the WOOSH of the wind in my ears.
For a moment, I have no troubles.
For a moment, all is well.
For just a moment, I can fly.
All of my friends walk with their better half
While I am still dancing alone.
Of course they have stories behind all their jokes
They always have texts on their phone.
Someone to cuddle on rainy, sad days
Someone to care if they’re down
They always have someone to take out to eat
And someone to straighten their crown.
And here I am sitting alone in this house
Writing this sad, little poem.
While all of the happy, young couples are out
I’m doomed to be always alone.
Delusions have faded and all that is left
Is a detailed report for the site of the theft.
The dreams that once held up her chin ever high
Are buried and all that is left is a sigh.
The great celebration is only a farce.
Puppets and actors all playing their part.
Pull back the curtain to see with your eyes
The sad little girl as she quietly cries.
The cute little story that’s told with such glee
Has broken her spirit most eloquently.
The step that is left is to pick a new mask
That giggles and smiles for the next rugged task.
We played a game of cards
I knew it from the start
The rules were very clear
The prize was my own heart
Card by card was laid
And tension filled the air
But little did I know
You were not playing fair
You tried to take this gal
A kind and caring soul
And change this housewife, sweet
Into your dirty hoe
So here the jokes on me
I should have known it’s true
How dare I trust a man
Another hole, Yahoo!