You cannot roller skate in the house she tells my child.
Why not? I ask.
She is silent.
Her mouth gets all prissy.
Rose bud like.
I would not let him do that if I were you, a stranger advises me.
That’s because you are not me, I reply.
Not in a mean way.
In a nonchalant way.
Not snotty.
What is wrong with you? The stranger asks me.
I am consternated.
Confused.
Wondering.
Why do people think they can control other people?
It is a puzzlement to me.
Bamboozles me each time.
Your seduction gnaws at my soul...
It crawls through my defenses...
Mystifying my senses...
Bamboozling my thoughts...
Down is up...
Right is wrong..
But worst of all,
Wrong is right...
Because I am in love with you...
I am an abomination
Worthy of your scorn
There can be no affection for one such as I
I will never know your passion
I am left yearning
I struggle to hold onto the possibility of us
My attempt is but a foolish dream
Still I cherish the sound of your voice
I value this bambooziling relationship
The flame of you is engraved on my heart
I taste your scent on my lips
I long for your tender touch
My inner soul crys out
If I receive but one kiss, my heart will fully bloom
Dictionary fun...#1... Dililah's Words Poetry contest
My writing has become bamboozle.
I keep getting braze.
Not able to put my words in the box.
My thoughts seem to only absorb him.
Hoping and praying, he is okay.
Feeling rotten, thinking of him.
Eating our poison!
Suffering so much!
I feel the sin, thinking of him.
But!
My heart desires him!
I try to hear his voice and hold him in dreams.
My only worriment , not letting him know, my feelings.
For all he will do, is use and abuse, my heart and soul.
But!
I truly miss him.
Worry so much.
Praying he is well.
But!
Sometimes I wish, I can rewind time.
Loving him, was a great feeling.
I use to think, that he was the best.
I felt special, every moment.
But!
Now, my heart continues to stay in the dark
Cursing
him
out!
Seeing figures and shades that hint orange spirits.
Orange wants to intermingle with
other colors to make eerie paintings.
It bamboozles me how individuals can sense
paintings’ merits in a gallery.
After the four glasses of chardonnay, I realize
what everyone saw in paintings.
The only quandary was now everything is moving.
They say paintings make sense even down to every smudge.
The men here look like wine waiters in their suits.
I wear a button-down shirt. The women
here in elegant dresses show their ego
by the sapphire broaches and emerald earrings.
I was not here for the art but
to see how people alter
appearances. A sonnet about people
who transform exclusively
for art is a luring theme.
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