Wednesday, March 29, 2017

You Make Me Crazy

So fucking crazy. Just the thought of you makes me sweat. You stand to close to me. You touch me too much. You touch me for too long. God. I just want to turn and look up into those pools of chocolate you call eyes and tip my lips up to yours. I want to close my eyes and feel your soft full lips ease down onto mine. Hesitant. Then meaningful. I want your big hands to burn their way around my waist and pull me in. One on my back, one on my ass. Pulling, desperate. I want it to slide down the back of my thigh and behind my knee, pulling up, pulling me in, bringing my aching wet need closer to the hard evidence of your desire.

I want to gasp into your mouth and hear your answer. I want to reach up and pull your face closer to mine. Your lips slide down my mouth, nip my chin. You tongue flicks out along the path of my beating pulse and laves across my collar bone. Your whispered appreciation a symphony in my ears. Your hand moves up my hip, lightly, tracing, questing, finding my aching breast. Your warm palm covers my tender nipple, rubbing slowly through my thin blouse.

Arching, aching, needing you, inside. Clothes move, barriers removed. Hot ready flesh meets wet needy slit. Gently, excruciatingly, slowly. Deeper into me, deeper, I need you deeper. Slow rhythms to start, learning. Whispered pleas for more. Bruising fingers grasping, pulling, straining. Lips melding into murmured wants. Desire rising, higher. Silencing squeals of crescendo. Breaking tidal waves of completion wash over us. You burst, hot, deep, liquid pulsing inside of me.

Gentle. So softly you ease me down. Back to my own feet. I open my eyes and….
It was never you. All of it in my mind. All of it in the split second after you walk past me. All of it a memory of nothing. You don’t even know. And here I sit, sweaty, aching to the beat of my heart.

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Tuesday, March 7, 2017

WHAT IS POETRY?

Written for Nashoba, Because she inspires me to be better than I am.

WHAT IS POETRY?

Poetry is
A river of words flowing down

A Mountain of ideas built upon

The Bedrock of emotion that is moved by

Shockwaves of physical turmoil that are

The Soul reaching for

A Grander thing than itself.

Poetry is
A Grander thing than itself,

The Soul reaching for

Shockwaves of physical turmoil that are

The Bedrock of emotion that is moved by

A Mountain of ideas built upon

A river of words flowing down

Poetry is A Mountain of ideas
Poetry is A river of words
Poetry is The Bedrock of emotion
Poetry is Shockwaves of physical turmoil
Poetry is A Grander thing than itself
Poetry is The Soul


Poetry is

all works posted here are copyrighted