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Paris Carter Poem
Makeup, something she does not have to wear,
For my paramour’s skin is soft as clouds above
Our heads,
And as flawless as placid waves
Swaying with the shore.
Those eyelashes long, flapping like
Wings on birds, but ever so carelessly
Hitting everyone she meets with a strong breeze.
Those light-brown eyes, which hide underneath,
Barely able to be seen, shaped like two almonds
Molded on her round face,
Coated in a shell of coffee brown skin.
And it is those eyes, which I stare into for hours,
Pondering about what lies behind in that mind,
Which is strong as her will.
Her voice is soft, as if she was whispering to a
Hidden ghost.
But if you can hear just a second of her voice you’ll
Hear music played better than any symphony.
As she talks, her short black hair falls in front
Of her face, and she just brushes it to the side
With the whip of her wrist.
If only I could have a try.
Her body is like an hourglass
Two legs no bigger than twigs,
And I know as she walks with those legs
Every boys’ pulse spike and head turn.
How could I forget her smile,
Which shines brighter than the fire of her desires.
And it is that lingering smile in my direction,
Which makes me soar higher than the clouds,
And my heart beat faster than jets.
I stare into those cinnamon eyes,
And the wind dances with her wavy hair.
I only throw away the urges to kiss those lips.
Those light pink lips,
Dosed with a just a thin coat of light-red lipstick.
I throw away the urges to grab my paramour’s hand.
Makeup, something my paramour does not need
For she is perfect just the way she is,
No need to go tampering.
Copyright © Paris Carter | Year Posted 2013
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Details |
Paris Carter Poem
Gaily gallant, ride forth over the mountains beat by the rough winds of may,
Ride past the islands and towns in which you can’t stay.
Let the breeze kiss thee face, on thou journey, thou journey home,
And wear the mud proudly on the only clothes thou own.
Keep thy sword sharp and wits sharper, to succumb thy loathsome enemies,
Curse the gales and rough waters of Poseidon which through thee across the sea,
Oh, the stories in which the beggars and sirens will tell once thou reach home,
Pride, fame, reuniting with thy patient wife all of the fortunes thou will own.
Don’t be dazed by the beautiful immortals who call thou name,
And hold strong on your little fragment of hope to keep you sane,
Let the birds sing righteous songs on thou journey home,
Return to the patient wife, and reclaim the thrown in which you own.
Copyright © Paris Carter | Year Posted 2013
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