Poem | |
There was sweat on my brow,
beads of them as I approached her.
I was a young man, still green.
She was a mature woman
like the long blades grow free
in the lush of nature.
My hand in hers
she took me
into her warmth.
you could hear
in the quiet
of my fear
in the silence
of my lust.
I knew nothing.
As we rolled in the dew of sex
as I fumbled and groped,
in some instinctive wisdom
entrusted myself fully to her.
She set our bodies in a fluid motion
my virginity now neatly cut.
We spent days
as I explored
the fresh sweet air
It was then I became a man.
how you hold a flower
how you manicure the stem
how you water the soil
how you delicately hold the petals.
It was then I became a gardener.
to tend a garden
It was then I learned how to love a woman.
More great poems below...
Poem | |
THIS IS A FICTIONAL WRITE THAT EXPLORES THE QUESTION OF WHAT LOVE IS. IT DOES SO IN A DRAMATIC WAY, AFTER ALL THAT IS MY DNA. IT ALSO TAKES A UNIQUE AND CONTROVERSIAL APPROACH TO THE TOPIC. IT IS MEANT TO STIR THOUGHT NOTHING ELSE. IT POSES QUESTIONS AND SUGGESTS ANSWERS BUT MAKES NO CONCLUSIONS. SOMETIMES AS WRITERS WE HAVE TO MAKE WAVES. SOME WILL RIDE THOSE WAVES ON THEIR SURFBOARDS AND CONSIDER THEM INVITING. OTHERS WILL FEEL THE WAVES CRASHING AGAINST THEIR FLESH AND IT WILL BE PAINFUL.
Love is a streetwalker at the corner of Hooker Lane and Prostitute Crescent.
You wanted to pay. Do it and leave. That's the way it's suppose to happen. But it doesn't quite go like that. She is looking at your eyes and she sees something and it feels like love to her. She cries and her tears are real. She touches your face with her pretty little hand and goosebumps run up your spine and you lose your breath.
You kiss her and stroke her hair and you are staring into her eyes as her pain grabs you by the biceps and touches your heart. So you just hold her you hold her and you love her as if she is a beam sent for you to project sent for you to protect.
She opens up and says words you heard in her tears. You listen you hold her and you just listen as she peers into your subconscious to sit with the frightened child inside of you. You take each others hands and you roll in the softness of the innocence of your childhood. Your silly hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams that back then were anything but silly.
She is beautiful. She is barely twenty. And you? Well you are going on thirty or is it forty.
You pray God will save her. Not pray you mumble it. Her smile tells you she knows. She feels like your responsibility and you don’t want her to die on the street working her corner. You don’t want to feel but you do. You are a weaved outer core of veins and you do. You feel everything. You are her.
She looks in the White Knight eyes she pinned on your face and you know the pins are there and you see her with your Gladiator brights.
You make love to her and she loves you back and holds you in her dream of what might have been. She is your Queen and you have stripped your armor, stripped your flesh and your organs. You are naked in her shine. You are raw in her light.
Sex? Sex costs one hundred and fifty bucks! Sex? Sex is two dogs humping in the park. Sex is not love, it is empty. Empty because the person is a stranger and there is no emotional connection.
At least that is what you thought.
But one day you are 53 years old and you think of your one hour bought woman. Did I say woman? She was a girl a vulnerable lost girl.
It is more than ten years later and you still remember her. That single hour in your life and it is engraved on your skull. Tattooed to your mind. Just one word. FOREVER. You can barely remember six year long relationships but you can still remember the touch of a woman, yes a woman you were with for just one hour in your life. You can still feel her skin. Her tears still burn like molten lava.
She is still on your palette; you still feel every word that penetrated your hide and struck the part of you that was her. You remember it. Not as a single moment but as every tick of the clock, and the multitudes of emotions, of thoughts, of realizations, of questions that existed in each and every second and you wonder...
Maybe you can buy love. Or at least find it on the other end of a financial transaction, maybe once you did..
Maybe love doesn't last three hundred and sixty five pages like in a novel. Maybe love isn't roses from the first frame to the closing credits, with a beginning a middle and an end
Maybe love is the memory of a 60 minute love affair with a working girl you met all those years ago. A memory safe and sound, written and produced, neatly tucked in the black vinyl grooves on the highway between your heart and your brain.
Poem | |
You can't make someone love you all you can do
is be someone who can be loved.The rest is up to them.
No matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
It takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.
You can do something in an instant
will give you heartache for life.
It's not what you have in your life but
who you have in your life that counts.
You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.
It's not what happens to people that's important
it's what they do about it.
Always leave loved ones with loving words.
Either you control your attitude or it controls you.
Heroes are the people who do what has to be done when
it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
Money is a lousy way of keeping score.
Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to
doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
Regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion
fades and there had better be something else to take its place.
Never tell a child their dreams are unlikely or outlandish.
Few things are more humiliating,
and what a tragedy it would be if they believed you.
You must be able to forgive.
No matter how good a friend is, they are going to hurt you
every once in a while - you must forgive them for that.
No matter how bad your heart is broken
the world doesn't stop for your grief.
Our background and circumstances may have influenced
who we are but we are responsible for who we become.
Just because two people argue, it doesn't mean
they don't love each other and just because
they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.
Two people can look at the exact same thing
and see something totally different.
No matter how thin you slice it,
there are always two sides.
You can keep going long after you think you can't.
Even when you think you have no more to give,
when a friend cries out to you,
you will find the strength to help.
It is hard to determine where to draw the line
between being nice and not hurting
people's feelings and standing up
for what you believe.
Credentials on the wall do not
make you a decent human being.
Writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains.
The paradigm we live in is not all that is offered to us.
(This is my own personal rewrite or version if you will of a common
post on the internet with many contributors and credited to Anonymous)
Poem | |
Yes I can still see her...
through rose colored glasses,
She is gorgeous.
I remember saying...
or at least thinking out loud
...You take my breath away,
She was a perfect site to behold; I am sure men literally
fell like pins at the alley, as she entered a room
...and yet she was gentle,
unaffected by her physical beauty,
she had so much love in her heart.
Naked our needs locked.
I can't remember ever having
felt anything or anyone so soft.
Her skin against mine I was at the foot of the horizon.
Her blue eyes true cleansed my sins.
Her hair flowed like a sheet of fine black sand,
like a tapestry made from a beach ebony in color.
Trapped in love I pulled her to me by her thick dark mane,
blanketed her pear shaped breasts.
Her lips seared mine as we shared a small Scape of air.
She punished me over and over again with her lingering touch.
Does ecstasy ever end if you play it over and over
in the annals of your memories like a looped tape.
Her lips were my lips my tongue was her tongue,
no space separated us.
I have touched the first day of spring,
tasted the first snowflake of winter.
heard the leaves change color on an autumn day,
I have even witnessed summer remove her golden robe,
watched it fall to her feet and stared as she stood in all her glory.
I have done all of that
but when she spread her wings
when she held me,
my life stopped beating,
and for just an infinitesimal moment of time
I was free. Free in the rapture of the moment.
We sunk into one another and danced a tango of infinite sex.
Nothing mattered anymore, she had tore out my heart,
fed it to me and it tasted like the ambrosia of kings.
The gates had opened, the angels had fled,
and I wandered through a mass of sexual satisfaction.
My mind was in a tailspin of romantic imagery.
Her voice swept me back to consciousness
as a single tear rolled down her cheek
and fell on to her smile.
We were both silky wet
and sported the scent of fresh dew in the morning.
We whispered, as our words
tip toed through the air like a majestic overture.
We were drenched in one another,
young and in lust.
I have no memory of when she finally left.
It must of been hours or was it days,
the freedom of unconscious love knows no time.
I had explored every crevice of her body,
we had feasted on one another,
no parts left untouched.
I thought it would never end I'm not sure it ever did.
She was an unframed masterpiece
I do know I thanked the Angel of Fire out loud.
I'm sure as I did, even though she was no longer
there she answered.
She had left, me unbound from the packaging
that had enslaved me.
It was her gift to me.
A gift, I store
...in the deepest regions of my passion.
Poem | |
More great poems below...
Poem | |
Loneliness was losing you ten years ago
I now wake up each day your side empty
I miss the cuddles and early morning sex
the endless hours without your smile.
No-one to share special moments with.
At night once the door shuts others out and
the long hours creep by each one darker
It is now I again feel the isolation.
No-one to share a joke or smile with,
in others minds you are now forgotten
yet for me it is still like yesterday.
Endless hours stretching out, on and on.
No-one to hold me when I weep in despair
or to wipe away the tears and comfort me.
I smile when people visit, offer some tea
but deep inside the tears never stop.
People tell me its time to forget,
well that would mean cutting out my heart.
For without you I am less than nothing
It is all the memories that comfort me.
The joyous times we together shared
and the life we lived together harmoniously.
My heart still belongs to you, none measure up
how could they? You and you alone are my soul.
So resigned I live with loneliness
fill my days with things to do.
Taking comfort in friends and family
Yet once the door closes loneliness sets in.
contest: Faces of Loneliness
Poem | |
I feel privileged.
I have been chosen by the Government
as part of a group testing something called
Edible Clinical Marijuana.
Honestly I half expected it to look like a Burrito
because the name sounds sort of Mexican.
It actually looks more like a brownie.
I’m am about to take a bite so hold on.
So here is the point
I am suppose to consume
one half of a brownie
then fill out this sheet
giving them my feedback.
I am going to have a few more bites.
milk would go great
with these babies.
I’ll be back.
(after a long while)
OK, sew sorry I was gonna while
I was staring inside my fridge\
for a while'
tying to remember
I think I wanted a glass of ink%
aktiually I’m dinking from the bodle@
I am eating my forth brownie
as I was instructured to do;
Did they say four or? ate
cause these. are tasty
a program on my compuwhatyoucallit
keeps underlyning my words
with read squiggles=
but it diidn’t underline squiggle#
wel dats stoopid
squiggle isa perfect lee
good underlying word*
stoopid Bill Gated^
sorry I ment Will Gated~
so watt was I saying ]
fill the sheet)
I don wanna sheet,
tha is gaross[
heeres a pen
ansir; yes- please)
?why m i bein so polite
oh wow Blues Brothers on my TV
what was I spose? to do
oh yeah watch tv
why am i so angry hahahahahah++
i mean hungary
h u n g r y
those look good
i con't tipe with mai mouth
full dats rood/rood
i'll get bak too dis later..
sew as they say
two bee contitnude<
hay lookk browniies
Mo Rice Why Vone
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Poem | |
A beat of drums, a song of solitude.
A deep and timid red, so softly hued.
Majestic beauty, truth is deep like night.
I come to play, if playing Queen is right.
A love is tempting, lust is just a game.
I steal a kiss as fears do turn from shame.
A sigh, a tie, I twist in pleasures sting.
I close my eyes, it's worth remembering.
A song of sex, a dance, I need to hear.
The sound of rushing, breathing, near my ear.
I tie a rope around a willing wrist.
A tie so red it makes the roses twist.
A puppet, pawn, my game is chess, I win.
A check, my mate, be ready to begin.
I feast on pain and pleasure, giving more.
Enjoy the time behind the dark red door.
Poem | |
Today I conceived myself as a poet for the first time,
and not because of employable meter, rhyme, and flow -
I will leave such devices for the wordsmiths and Masters.
And not because I can write poetry....what I do,
should be labelled as something else entirely -
not as poetry.
I am an organic recorder, filing away bits and pieces of zeitgeist,
without rhyme or reason,
almost as if ghosts are guiding my hand across the paper,
and I really don't have much say in the matter.
I am a stranger in a crowded world,
a stranger amongst people I have known for years,
not quite fitting in anywhere, but being in all places at once.
I write the words down, they in turn speak to me.
A clear, mutual agreement -
the smell and feel of new paper,
the liquid, brashness of ink as it penetrates the virgin whiteness
of so many possible observations, opinions and stories.
The words know me intimately.
We aren't strangers.
The reality of vowels and consonants is where I truly fit.
I was moving through a crowd of familiar faces -
a familiar feeling of strangeness and alienation,
when I came across a Persian face I had never seen before.
A real stranger.
Not one I have known for years.
She mentioned not being into sex,
how she only wanted to talk about things she couldn't mention to friends -
her mind felt as if it was floating by the moon
and she wasn't sure how to reel it back into her skull again.
I told her not to worry, sex isn't the only thing on my brain.
She said that sex was the only thing on her brain;
but in a different way.
She explained how she had been kidnapped in Iran,
imprisoned as a sex-slave,
repeatedly raped by rich business men who wore wedding bands.
I asked if she was filled with hate.
She wasn't quite sure.
"What does hate feel like?"
"Well, it shouldn't be mistaken for rage, anger or frustration.
Those emotions are red hot to the touch.
Hate is a cold thing.
Like a Raven perched on the railing of a bridge,
sleet bouncing off its feathers,
not caring to fly away even though cars are barrelling past,
flinging up dirty, February slush.
There is nowhere left to fly to.
The trees are all cut down,
dumpsters have tight lids,
for some reason the fish are all belly-up in the river below,
dead from some mysterious reason.
Its stomach aching from hunger,
the Raven smells the reason for all of this death
emanate from the strange looking beasts walking and driving past.
It is all their fault -
they are the poison behind it all.
This is hate."
Poem | |
This is a short piece for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I lost a close friend very talented, very young to breast cancer. I also lost my cousin recently to the same disease. I hate that ugly "C" word. I just wrote this story to highlight the relationship North American men have with women's breasts. I hope it is taken in the spirit that it is written.
I don't have to try not to look at a woman's cleavage,
I love looking into their eyes.
I love listening to them talk.
I enjoy listening to a woman's point of view.
It enlightens me.
It gives me views of the world that I would otherwise miss.
I appreciate their nurturing nature.
I like how soft they feel.
Hold a woman's hand?
That is sure to send shivers up my spine.
If that is not what heaven feels like
send me else I'll take my chances there.
There is nothing like that first kiss.
I can walk all day with her as if it were a minute in time.
I float on air.
I am a romantic.
I adore women.
I love the way they walk
the way they smell.
Hugging or spooning it's all good.
The opposite sex is very special.
It is time we listened more and appreciated more.
Women can lead us to the proverbial
I like staring at their tits.
Poem | |
For BigFoot I searched everywhere.
In all the Northwest, he’s not there!
Then I thought I might know
where a BigFoot might go . . .
so I went where the barbers cut hair!
To fit in and be like the rest
of us humans, he’d look his best.
so I went to each shop
where I thought he might stop
to have hair removed from his chest.
To Hollywood soon I was led.
I’d heard of a man with a head
like a wolf’s, full of hair,
making everyone stare.
What I found was Hugh Jackman instead!
Then a man I could not see too well
crossed my path at a fancy hotel.
When I got a good look,
that was all that it took!
It was furry but small, Steve Carell!
The last guy I saw in that land
of Hollywood stars acted grand.
That guy, very hairy
made Big Foot less scary.
He went by the name Russell Brand.
From Hasselhoff to Bradley Cooper,
some hairy guys are super duper!
I kept at my quest
when to the southwest
I moved, for I’m always a trooper.
I searched high and low, five years more,
but by then, I had grown very poor.
I had always liked shoes,
so thought I would choose
a job in a classy shoe store.
Like Carrie in “Sex in the City,”
I loved my work, and I looked pretty
with swank heels on my feet,
yet I felt incomplete
There was no Mr. Big! Such a pity!
But while working one day without care.
I looked up Can you guess who was there?
This odd creature so tall
made Shaquille look too small.
And he hardly could hide all his hair!
No fresh smelling flower was he,
but kindly I sensed him to be.
As I stooped down to put
my hand on that Big Foot,
I knew fate had led him to me!
Written by Andrea Dietrich
Poem | |
I need you like I need air
Close my eyes, your face I see
An unexplained obsession
GET ON LINE
Long distance relationships
Test the limits of the mind
When bodies can't touch in person
Thank God for web cams
An arrow to the bullseye
A basketball to the hoop
Whichever game you're playing
Give it your best shot
I jiggle when I wiggle
I got some bounce to my ounce
Having sex is not sexy
Porn is deceiving
If I could have some ice cream
With a piece of chocolate cake
Cover it with caramel
The perfect threesome.
Poem | |
if i maurice yvonne could cry
i’d spread my tears
eternal over your
( say it, dare to be bold)
(then she could taste your pain)
but i can’t shed tears anymore
(tell her why)
(you need her to know)
(no i can't she'll leave me)
(get out of my head)
my mind beats differently now
i have seen the doctor
i'm not well...kind of
(you're blowing it)
(can't you see her face)
(quiet i'm trying to think)
it's not like a normal doctor
if i could feel
(you use to. you did)
i would touch you with
the hands of a silk maker
gentle and caring and with purpose.
i was diagnosed as bipolar
(there you got it out)
(was that so hard?)
leave me alone will you
no i'm sorry not you
they gave me drugs
i don't feel like i use to
not the mountain not the waterfall
(give it a break just speak plain)
(ok yes i will)
i can't cry any more
i have no sex drive
it's the pills
oh my God
i would and more
i’d run beyond to hold you
they make me docile
you'll laugh when you hear this
because you are always with me
(don't get all mushy with her)
i miss you
(ok bud you did it)
(let's just move on)
i have no answers, but
what you're feeling
you want us to be romantic
(i can't listen to this)
(i am out of here)
before being medicated
i was passionate
so very passionate
i'll tell you though
something’s got to give
something’s got to give.
September 11 2014
Poem | |
I am dating a young woman and we are deeply in love. However, no matter what I do sexually, she never achieves orgasm so we decided to ask a sex therapist for advice. The therapist listened to our story and suggested the following;
"Hire a strapping young man and while the two of you are making love have the young man wave a towel over you, as though he is fanning you both. Make sure he is totally naked and she can see his manhood as he fans you both with the towel. That will help your wife fantasize, and should bring on a full-blown orgasm."
We went home and followed the therapist's advice. We hired a handsome young man and he stripped off and enthusiastically waved a towel over us both as we made love. But it didn't help and still my lover was unsatisfied and frustrated.
Perplexed, we went back to the therapist "Okay" he says, "let's try it reversed. Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over them."
Once again, we followed the advice. The young man got into bed with my lover and I waved the towel. The young man really worked with great enthusiasm and my lover soon had an enormous, room-shaking, screaming, orgasm.
Smiling, I dropped the towel, tapped the young man on the shoulder and said to him triumphantly...."NOW THAT'S how you wave a towel, son!!"
Poem | |
The menace of war in the chaos of life
The peril of ocean when tempests are rife;
The danger of jungle where feral beasts hide
The terror that lies in a mountain slide.
All these things are simple child's play
Or frivolous sport on a summer's day;
These sad battles that rouse and vex
The heart and soul of love and sex.
Struggle and hardship, beasts of prey
Are there to menace all human clay:
The bird uncaged can take to his wing
But the hazard of love is another thing;
Under the torment of passion's control
Love crushes the body and steals the soul.
A minute of rapture, an age of despair,
These are the gifts of love's warfare.
Always and forever since time began
When man dared woman and woman lured man;
In that sweet peril that prowls and lies
Is a bloodless conflict when eyes meet eyes.
That careless menace, forever sweet
Whose forlorn end, is joy's defeat;
Now and forever till time has passed
On passion's altar, hearts shall come last
Poem | |
Two autos both tried to have sex.
A pity they both were such wrecks!
With great apprehension,
One lost its suspension.
Old banger sex – oh so complex!
Contest: East Jesus
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
Checked using how many Syllables 8,8,6,6,8
~awarded 3rd place~
Poem | |
If 2012 prophesies prove true
And Earth’s life cycles again renew
Mysteries of man will be more than a few
Challenges may await future life forms
With intellects far surpassing our norm
Created to live without doing harm
For if they decipher man’s history
What will they make of our great mystery
The one we refer to as bigotry
Black labs, gold retrievers live side by side
Wild stallions and mustangs on prairies ride
Both red ants and black, free to colonize
Man’s refusal to accept differences
To wiser beings may make no sense
What in man’s makeup can give it credence?
Earth’s subsequent creatures may reproduce
Not needing two sexes to call a truce
So mating rituals may be pursued
A single-sex species might not comprehend
Why women workers were paid less than men
And why “free speech” was not just a given
Questions would most certainly arise
How a believer in God denies
Rights to free worship without compromise
And how could so many wars be waged
Evoking God’s name in death-march crusades
With killing, torturing in every age
Indeed such mysteries in man’s history
Would leave a perplexing legacy
Sure to confound any new species
New cultures may thrive on diversity
Of religion and genealogy
And speak of our inferiority
Note: This is dedicated to Christopher Higgins whose poems about prejudice inspire readers
to do more than just think about one of the greatest ills in our society.
Poem | |
she said my words tore away at her.
i wasn't looking at her eyes at the time.
she made me look.
she wanted me to see her pain.
i imagined her naked.
imagined her left hand moving towards her nipple.
her right hand she said
held her face turned around.
that is how i made her feel.
i pretended to listen.
i didn't hold her.
i didn't speak.
i had sex with her.
afterward she looked sad
and i felt something.
it made me feel
as if i had violated her.
like i should say sorry.
the sex was good.
Poem | |
A rhythm to my rhyme, and a rhyme to my heartbeat,
Pulsing against the ropes, taste of pleasure will meet.
Knots, precise, tied with trust against the flesh playground.
An embrace of skin and silk, lace and locked, surround.
Harness the energy of submission, relaxed and renewed,
Rose petals, red silk sheets, candle light sets the mood.
A controlled dance, artwork of sex, love, lust and control.
For not is the shame, a complete satisfaction is the goal.
Hands to hands, two heartbeats, a pace of perfect flavor,
Every inch of God's creation a taste upon lips you savor.
I give you me so completely, paradise, an island in the sky.
Angel wings tucked beneath the bondage, still I will fly high.
Master of the art, teach of the trade, secrets we will know.
When all the energies are aligned, the rush will abundantly flow.
Poem | |
Paradise Leaving Not A Trace
I took the last picture off the wall
then my broken heart started to bawl
on the floor lay your broken vows
fat they lay like bloated cows
The love sworn by your sacred heart
flipped over like an apple cart
the corner lay three mismatched shoes
I sit here , lonely, cryin' da blues
I took that picture and held it tight
sad memories of our fightin' last night
you spat upon my deep, deep remorse
grieved as you beat on that dead horse
I saw dear hope entered my heart today
I saw a picture that reminded me of you
the pretty girl had your perfect eyes
sun shining so like you in her skies
Tell me just one more time how you care
lie to me even if it is an oath unfair
whisper gasps of our sex-filled nights
baby, please forget those recent fights
Lets hang the pictures back on the walls
lock the doors, not take any damn calls
undress as we rush into mad, mad embrace
stay in that paradise leaving not a trace
Robert J. Lindley, 06/21/1976
This was my last poem written to her before my first wife and I finally
divorced. I had my best friend deliver it. He said she threw it into the
garbage can and told him to tell me to go jump into a lake. Next morn I
knocked on the door there, her mother answered. I asked for my poem back
from the garbage can, she got it and gave it to me! I have it still with dried
food stains on the last stanza.
I keep it to remind me that too late is a damn terrible place to ever be!!! This
is the first time I have ever shared it with anybody since she never even read
I hope you may like it , for it shows that young fools
suffer too. And often rightly so...
Poem | |
You are a plus size model: sexy, hot
Emaciated woman, you are not!
You have the curves; you have the booty too
Those skinny girls don’t hold a shine to you
You know you’re fat and yet you have that flair
You’re beautiful; you make them stop and stare
You claim your rolls are good enough to eat
Your man, he sees you as a tasty treat
You’ve got tattooed Miss Piggy on your arm
I think that it’s delightful- quite the charm
You flaunt yourself In Big Girl style with verve
Make men just want to touch your every curve
Oh Tess, I do confess, you make me feel
That Big Girls too can have that sex appeal
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Poem | |
I want to write something that makes people say “I wish I wrote that”
I want to write something that gives the hopeless their hope back
I want to write stuff that Tupac would be happy to have on his notepad
I write for everyone who had a broke past
I write to cure heart-break
I hope my words offer light to those going through dark days
Good times are ahead even though they appear far away
Sometimes you have to get things the hard way
I’m writing for that girl who just got cheated on
Hope my words are a bandage to people who don’t know where they’re bleeding from
I’m writing for people who think their chances of succeeding’s gone
I write for those whose parents chose to lead them wrong
I write for those fighting discrimination
I only get offended when people give me limitations
Notorious B.I.G told me the sky is the limit
So I write till I’m out of ink or my pen is breaking
I write for those battling depression
I write for those struggling to see their reflection
I write for those who want to stand up tall
I write to inspire but I can’t please you all
My rhymes are far from perfect
But I’m honest in all of my verses
I’m trying to give worth to those who feel worthless
Because I was made to feel like I had no purpose
I’m not trying to save people
Just trying to offer a little help
I believe everyone should be made equal
Regardless of age, race, sex, looks or wealth
I hope my words will one day lead the blind
I hope my words encourage people to go against the system
That doesn’t mean to commit crimes
Just don’t be afraid to be different
I may not make a change in the world
But maybe I can help to take away the pain from a girl
Or offer a little guidance to a fatherless boy
I hope my words inspire, but I started writing to fill a void
Poem | |
I'm just swingin' in my hammock,
Just chillaxing, sexting my best boy.
He says "I want to smack that my bootylicious baby,
Do ya wanna come over to my crib and get our freak on?"
I wrote him back saying "I'm diggin' your slanguage,
but I'm busy right now, yo, I got work to do."
"Work ain't all that, I'll give you a threepeat of last night" he writes.
"Oh that sounds so fantabulous!
Your kisses were so delishful,
but baby I gotsta work!"
"A little literotica, some faction,
cuz you know baby, I'm a sexpert now!"
"Sounds like a good time, I know ya know
how to play that." He types.
I lay back in my hammock, eyes to the clouds
J-lo in my headphones, writing my poetry.
When I get a text titled.
I got something ginormous for you.
So I open the email and see a picture of a huge chocolate cake.
I text back my baby and say "I'm on my way!"
Poem | |
Numb with new kisses
Salty crispy hibachi ribs,
And your authentic sex.
Eyes smiling in the silence,
Small talk, funny faces,
And the sound of the dawn asking for five more minutes
Over crickets and frogs.
Taking in your presence in the glow of the porch light.
Eyes into eyes.
Lips on skin, again.
I was almost betrayed by the wind…
“Guard your heart from this poet.
It will be captured
And written into line and verse,
Then sounded back in a Siren's call,
Driven by careless waves,
And his relentless tide,
Into the black jagged stones
That will pierce your hardened hull,
And sink your pretty heart.
Such a beautiful coral,
To be admired in “ages hence”.
Still framed and frozen
In a moment of passion
When love was so new,
For the first time, again.
Innocence kept and renewed,
Your treasure preserved,
Only poets will dare to travel.”
You could have expired
With arms folded
In linen and soft hinges
And dropped in dark earth,
But you chose me,
Despite my words,
Despite the wind,
And for that,
Some new poet will be always thankful,
For those that have chosen wormwood
Will never be admired as you are now -
Newly discovered in an ancient pose,
Outstretched arms reaching for the poet’s heart.
Such a beautiful coral,
I give up my breath and remain,
In the depth,
Michael F. Lewis
Poem | |
PENNED ON AUGUST 14, 2014!