Long Fleshes Poems
Long Fleshes Poems. Below are the most popular long Fleshes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fleshes poems by poem length and keyword.
Of the distance,
beauty appeared at peace, calmly resting.
Proximity grew closer to this human figurine;
lengthy legs painted in ocean blue jeans.
The thesis statement to male's eyes in dreams.
But those legs...
Those legs were the topic of my eyes
Pupils conversing in-between her inner thighs
The rhetorical tongue eager to submit beneath sun rise
Thickened bridled muscle strengthens to rise
I mean d*** Oh me! Oh myy!
Oooo wee such a beautiful sexy queen.
Envisioning,
If at current, her faucet is running. ..
Slow-ly d
r
I
p
p
I
n
g or simply leak-ing
So the fleshes hydration can be full-filling.
Muscles within muscles while warm liquid falling?
Can we start engaging?
Lips connect; gently kissing... (Pause)
But the guiltiness in the minds eye began interrupting
Spirit intervening
Muscles deflating
Suddenly, no tempting to the extent of no lusting
Corrective vision restoring
Walking through the escape door from fornicating...whew!
As the moon tiptoes in
Eyes close and knees bend
The darkened closet within
Praying to overcome this certain sin
That I indeed struggle in
And that I may be born again
This I pray, from day to day...Amen
INK-U-SCRIPT
06-04-2014
Enchanting Effect Of Nature
Nature caught my eyes
When I was a child
About the age of six, seven
I used to go to Heaven
Enchanting effect of nature when revealed upon me
Trivial things of nature created the Heaven scene
I and my sister with grandfather
Towards the stream in forest
Walking on meadows of downy grass
Atmosphere was majestic and soul bliss
When passing through the jungle
I found a lot of trouble
Was a pond of rain water
On the water of pond
I was staring very strong
The time was afternoon
When sun appeared like a moon
Was resting on the stone
Grandfather near the shore
Was playing with her crown
My sister on the ground
Red, orange shades of sun
Very visible on the water of pond
The images of trees
Were making it so deep
The reflection of nature scene
Like a painting on mirror piece
I was confused how much deep it would be
Strong kind of fear raised in me
Soon my fear converted into screams
A group of bees, when appeared from the trees
My fear went away
When saw glimmering, lightening bees
The dark green trees with such luminous bees
Was giving the view of imaginations of magic dreams
Grand father said, “they are Monarch butterflies”
Then other species came in purple, red and blue
They were flying over grandfather, sister and me
Like fairies celebrating the joy of breeze
In some grand festival for King and Queen
Trees looked noble indeed
Who governed with greenery
The rustle of leaves
Actually their clapping in gratitude
For that grand festival scene
What a fascinating day that was
When nature enchanted my whole life
That day is still fresh in my memories
Always fleshes in my eyes
Like images of dream.
Poetess S. Nadia Azam Shah Bukhari
All Rights Reserved
Gauging way
browning face
races only race
without nothing time plays
Through ray
lean less glare
with all strength blessed
silently being bound
Soul passes
Oh! The Victorious Soul
You are with the Crown
truthfully with frown
formed in to
multiferious fleshes
The Beast
The void, the emptiness
What is that to which drives our inner soul to feel its pain
The loneliness of love we find hard existing
The beast, he live's there hungering to eat
The empty you fill, lurking in the the darkness
Thriving on the bitterness of the hearts pureness
There it dwells, eatting at your fleshes desires
Love, it's bitter of betray,anger and hearts stomp
Where is the taste, we endure to bestow and feast
The Beast, it eats; I die as an awakening
My eye's open, I do not see
That of my death I experience
What of the darkness? Is there life or just myth
I hunger with thirst, I cry out in anger
Love me never more that I may be set free
But love me yet or I die this day of my love for you
That I only breathe the breath you take
That my life be yours til that day
Writers of the dark
Sisters they are three
Tales of darkened horror
To scare the light from thee
Vampires of the night
Haunting the living souls
To lure them from their light
As there intention slowly unfolds
Gray mist begins to rise
Around their eerie crypts
Three maidens from the night
White laced, fleshes ripped
Vampiring ghouls
In scarlet greed
Napes and neck
Frenzied feed
Fuelled of blood
As the dawn matures
Their nightly feast
From their hypnotic lures
The sun rises
On the living morn
As the vampiric three
Retire to death norm
Stay in at night
Lock your doors
The Sisters three
The De La Keurs
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy2.php
The void, the emptiness
What is that to which drives our inner soul to feel its pain
The loneliness of love we find hard existing
The beast, he live's there hungering to eat
The empty you fill, lurking in the the darkness
Thriving on the bitterness of the hearts pureness
There it dwells, eating at your fleshes desires
Love, it's bitter of betray,anger and hearts stomp
Where is the taste, we endure to bestow and feast
The Beast, it eats; I die as an awakening
My eye's open, I do not see
That of my death I experience
What of the darkness? Is there life or just myth
I hunger with thirst, I cry out in anger
Love me never more that I may be set free
But love me yet or I die this day of my love for you
That I only breathe the breath you take
That my life be yours til that day
Ashes all around, raining down
Drowning the misery with more
The floating specks of grey
That were once a rosy pink
Filled with fragrance and life
The flowers paved the way ahead
New love blossoming under the trees
First kisses behind the school buildings
Birds pecking at the ample rice grains
And a happy, happy place.
Nothing much has changed since
Only the air thick with morbid death
The boundless bed of ashes giving way
To nameless faces half buried in eternal sleep
Thorns drawing blood with every step
Unmarked tombs crowding weeping trees
Dried tears on the unturned pages
Vultures scavenging for fleshes of suffering
But the throne got an heir at long last
So a happy, happy place it is still.
The pen is but a dormant tool, and yet, when brought to life,
it channels a creative force, transforming thought to word.
When animated by a muse, unlike a surgeon's knife,
it harvests what lies fallow, and sets loose the captive bird.
It channels a creative force, transforming thought to word;
it opens an imprisoned mind and lets it wander free.
It harvests what lies fallow, and sets loose the captive bird,
and sheds light on the dark within, so other souls might see.
It opens an imprisoned mind and lets it wander free;
its traces quiet racing minds, set anxious hearts at rest,
and shed light on the dark within, so other souls might see.
Catharsis flows from every stroke, as writers will attest.
Its traces quiet racing minds, set anxious hearts at rest;
a poet's pen is different from any tool he owns.
Catharsis flows from every stroke, as writers will attest;
it breathes life in where none is found, and fleshes out bare bones.
A poet's pen is different from any tool he owns;
when animated by a muse, unlike a surgeon's knife,
it breathes life in where none is found, and fleshes out bare bones.
The pen is but a dormant tool, and yet, when brought to life…
—————
for the Pantoum On Writing Poetry Poetry Contest
sponsored by Milton Hankins
written on 11/28/22
Life in a Jar
I’d like to find a special jar
To put aside some life,
A jar that keeps both face and form,
And stints the scourge of change.
I’d put therein, a rusted leaf,
Or summer’s one perhaps,
To always have the seasons at
The twisting of a wrist.
I’d put therein, my true love’s kiss,
To always know its taste.
And next to that a snapshot of
The world within her eyes.
I’d also save, encased therein,
First cries out to the world;
Of lives conceived through gifted love,
And feeling newly born.
I’d store away the vistas of
Grand aspects, earthly borne,
And let them burn through fired glass
From every lay of land.
Then I would not be far from life,
From where I cannot see.
No, I prefer to keep it fresh
For morning’s light, through glass.
It’s change that writes the script of life
And fleshes out the page.
While time is just a numbered pause
Without a story told.
Death
Untold
Is it for poem?
Lost beauty of poem means insecure.
Critic master knows and confirm sure.
Star mark above message gives indication and inspiration there.
Keep in energizing blood and fleshes of poems here.
Do or die.
If tell ‘tat fie.
Death is sure.
No medicine is there to cure.
Poem may be something.
Do not proud for your good style of writing.
Anxiety means poet’s death.
Real Poet takes determination for beauty of oath.
Poem reached to points of excellent and wonderful.
Poets are joyful.
Oh my god, poets are glad to say.
In historical moments of poetic community, it is than red letter day.
Saroj khan[sakha]