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 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
Deangeline
rose
 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
Deangeline
they say girls don't touch themselves
that's a man's job
you pluck the hairs from your ****** skin
prepping for the feast that shall inevitably last forever
the blood has spilled
a ritual you long wished for
and at times
wish to take back
there is a mark upon my *******
they are plump now
tender and sore
my legs quiver often
but they say don't touch yourself
don't please yourself
that's a man's job
but my legs still quiver
my mind wanders where it's told not to
it was supposed to feel like spring
like dew in the morning on wild grass
im reaching for soil to bury my hands in
maybe they'll come undone
they'll unclench themselves
from blood stained palms
and soak the earth that will swallow me whole
maybe in another life
i'd become a rose
i've always yearned to be seen
to be watered
to be held close
inhaled
and exhaled
the sweetest breath to bare
hang me to dry so my petals unfurl to the ground
and you'd pick me up
place me in a pretty wooden box for safe keeping
-deangeline
 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
Alan Brown
a lustrous moon glossed in mist
shines on impatient lips longing to be kissed
while a thumping heart drowns in the dark,
weighted by a romance devoid of spark.

her heart is as restless as a dove,
starving for infatuation & love.
his heart is empty & cold,
living life only to grow old.

the hazy contour of slender hips  
dissipates as candlelight is extinguished by his lips;
her quick footsteps & the click of a door lock
are drowned by the steady ticking of a clock.

tonight she spreads her wings to fly,
eager for takeoff & sweet goodbye.
unchained, she is finally at ease.
abandoned, he shrinks to his knees.

He cries.
& so she flies...
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<*** id="poem1929573" class="poem poem-left " data-align="left" data-url="http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1929573/allah/" data-text="ālláh by Máteùš Izydor" seepoem="/poem/see/1929573/">
  
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      <a href="/polaroid-scrabble/" class="nocolor poem-poet-name popover-profile" data-url="/popover/profile/662176/">Máteùš Izydor</a> <span class="poem-added s" title="Poem added 5 minutes ago">5m</span>
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      <a href="/poem/1929573/allah/" class="nocolor">ālláh</a>
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      <p>it's so good to feel, something, anything;<br>   perhaps even crying while singing along to<br>       fiddler on the roof's <em>if i were a rich man</em> -<br>breaking into tears at the point where the song<br>breaks into... simply             syllables...<br>    oh what sweetness can be derived from <em>crying</em>,<br>from <em>feeling</em>... from engaging in the world<br> as must be necessary...<br>         in the evolution of theology,<br> working from polytheism...<br>                      yhwh      (the tetragrammaton)<br>is the reason, i.e. the god of thought...<br>                     ālláh?       the god of emotion...<br>        the god of song, the god of praise,<br>   so why would muslims need to respect<br>       the third schism, that's manifest in <em>wahhabism</em>?<br>        wahhabism doesn't respect music, yet<br>                 there's the song on a <em>minaret</em> to the count<br>of five times a day... unlike the church bell...<br>          there's a song in the minaret, fives times a day<br>    does the uvula vibrate from a song being echoed...<br>                    of the three? <em>sh'i'ah</em>.<br>but who then is?          the god of libido?<br>                             15/5/1986?              chernobyll?<br>that's really ******* audacious of me,<br>         i wonder if it's also towing behind that assumption<br>a second assumption, of: being auspicious -<br>               then i'll do my dance, pseudo-blind<br>  as in: dancing with my eyes closed...<br>                             then i'll also be found tickling<br>a candle flame, and do what i have done since being<br>a child... "twirling" my index against the thumb,<br>call it a massage for all i care;<br>      but what a glorious feeling... to simply <em>feel</em>!<br>to be able to cry, and compensate <br>                with out-of-the-body-like-experience of laughter!<br>oh? you want an explanation of the diacritics?<br>   well, since you asked... islam has been benevolent <br>to <em>poland</em> from what i gather...<br>         the <em>ottomans</em> have become neutralised,<br> the former enemy has reversed and subsequently become <em>buffer</em>....<br>i'll celebrate that word, in all it's glory like i would,<br>constantly thinking about the tetragrammaton...<br>                           so<br>                            ālláh:<br>    macron over the first ah      prolongs the vowel:<br>            aa      <br>                              and the acute on the second a? á?<br>              that sharpens the concept of the breath (soul), <br>                  that's borrowed from yhwh - with the clasp of the H...<br>for H                     and H              are god's hands.</p>

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 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
Onoma
no one knows how to
make love as if their
life depends on it.
death does.
entering and exiting
while maintaining
perfect eye contact.
giving what it takes
fully.
bracing patience, with
the sturdiness of a
promise: ' I'll always be
gentle, even when I come...
we'll go together.
What lives to die inside
you can't lie.'
Tears losing temperature in his absence
Untouchability in his negligence
Hatred in his unspoken silence
Poisoned me with his memories
Where did I go wrong in loving him?
 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
Alex
Untitled
 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
Alex
No
One
Cares
That
I
Am
Slowly
Dying.
Sorry... Just trying to stop thinking and writing what I think helps... Sorry...
 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
nivek
poetry
 Apr 2017 Jon Po Dom
nivek
crunching, munching,
ching, ching
words.
How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?
thank you for all your comments and likes. never thought that this poem would be so appreciated. thank you again and again.
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