I dreamed of you,

laying beside me,

through the fall of the night.

Your hands,

laid around my neck,

with a soft titillate touch.

Your fragrance breathe,

filled the air,

under the covers.

What is your name?

For i didn't hear your voice,

neither did i see your face.

If you are listening to me,

through the distress call,

of my heart beat,

return to me,

In the stillness of night.

Define Beautiful?

I write with honesty and drape it with emotion.

I wash my words with tears and dry them in anger.

I never read my words out loud, my tongue has no taste for them.

I don't notice anyone sees my writes as I notice nobody feels them.

I tap my words on to a screen as I watch my tv.

I write my words just with me and expect nobody.

Words scrape raw into my mind, on to the screen.

They reap my pain in the most simplest way.

It's not very beautiful, not like my hello poetry friends, but it's just like me no time for etiquette.

The words stumble from my mind, much like someone who has lost thier way.

And my heart reads into every line, even when I say I bare none.

Be it rushed, sloppy and brazen...

My words always always find their way onto my hello poetry page.

I get lost in all of my fellow writers, writes.

But it's no surprise, because that's how it is in my everyday life.

I'm lost and I'm found, alot down and almost never sound.

I write how I live.

I write only what I live...

My echoes are all I have to give to my hello poetry friends.

He works so hard though the week.

How can I wake him from his sleep?

My body wants him. My tongue to.

My mind is racing on what we will do.
Should I wake him from his sleep? Gently kissing him, starting with his cheek.

I'm awake I always am, but should I wake this hard working man?

We had fun. We played today.

Touching each other in wonderfully messy ways.

He led me down. He ate out.
It was all that love and lust should be about.

Lips were licked and necks bit, bodies one, and finger fun.

Ankle gripping, legs were spread.
Then he bent me over the bed.

So fulfilling and ******.

Sweating, panting.
*** perfumed room.
Held hands, hair pulling and ******* to.

It couldn't be better don't get me wrong.
But all this writing and he won't be sleeping long.

I said if I woke him I would start with a gentle kiss on his cheek, but being reminded.... That would be weak.

When he wakes he better be prepared, because all this passion Must be fed.

So I'll wake him, and I'll wake his friend.....

I can't wait to start again.

With insomnia I've been cursed, but sometimes...... I know things could be worse.

I've stored 5 days' worth of emotion
And instead of writing a riveting masterpiece
I broke down and cried.
Oh well.
I've lost my touch I guess.