All those homilies are works of comedy;
the only sounds you'll need to hear are my moans and plea, praying for you to take me.
I would need no altar to make you kneel,
the sight of my bare back alone would send those sinful lips of yours into overkill.
And, please, put that bible away,
we'll have the best erotica written by the time this night is over anyway,
or perhaps until the sun becomes astray from the unforgiving light and day.
So come on now, your able hands
would make the saints envious
with all the unkind things you'll do to my equally unkind body,
Bring it on, your cunning tongue
could make even a skeptic curious
even the angels would be stripped off
their grace and glory.
Forget about your god when all he ever do
is make you bleed, cry and beg,
you know the only place you'll ever find eternal salvation is between my legs.

Your hot breath and hands against my neck,
amen.

My favorite poem
is your hands on my neck.
If you need my lips all over you,
I'll deliver and keep it in check.
What about you?
You see I don't write love poems on paper,
I write them on the sheets.
You know my mouth and my tongue
are your new favorite sweets.
Enough of these rhymes,
we are just wasting time.
Just show me where your bedroom is,
and tell me how much you want me.
And I'll show you what you've been missing,
and it's heaven when you're deep inside me.
What about you?
What is your favorite poem?
I hope it's your hands on my neck.

What I'd give to see that one weekend all over again
In a film
or perhaps read it in a novel
ㅡa year's worth of tears to feel the warmth of that riverlike stream again and a half-year's worth of winter in his eyes

a half year's worth of anguish to have him watch me fall asleep in a cold rainy night again and tuck me in for a month's worth of his familiar warmth.

a month's worth of thrown up food to get a taste of the liquor in his lips once more, to get intoxicated by his touches' week's worth of sweet summer in September.

a week's worth of disappointments just to have him light up a day's worth of my cigarettes again.

anything.

or maybe a few more sticks will do.

A poem that shouldn't be. A poor attempt to express an affection so otherworldly, it will probably seem comical.

Rather offensive; my words wouldn't justify such affection.

This is a sweet poem of relinquished gratitude

For a man who has done nothing but dig a hole that goes through the core

Like a worn-out book binded by threads of thirst that doesn't wish to be quenched,

A daughter who can only whisper prayers of solitude for a man who traded a jade for his *****.

Now that jade he's turned his back away from is not so precious anymore.

Rather a daisy all rotten, vines growing around the cage with which despair has clenched.

How my hands will reach to grab the demons' hands out of your body,
pulling you, redeeming you as close
as I can possibly get.
How our lips will utter the words
we cannot say while pressed together.
As your teeth mold against the
skin of my neck,
the stars shall hold me up and make me forget the word 'wrecked'.
How we will leave each other breathless
but still screaming for more,
how we wanted to curse so loudly
and also softly whisper our 'thanks'.
Both of us are shaken.
Broken, but finally fixed too.

I hope we both bruise lifetime bruises.

How sweet it is to relive the years of young over and over!

How lovely it is to recall the good old days and remember!

The candies, the soft songs, the bliss of innocence, the tinge of rainbow at every sight!
Oh, bring me back to my childhood!

…but this is their story.

my childhood had been what life is to me all along and now;

Everything and everyone comes and then goes.

There are but few things that haven't changed from when I was four;

the longing I can never outgrow.

the house I can never really call home.

the constant nightmares, cries and screams.

nothing a child would ever imagine nor dream.

The scars, the beaten-down rhymes, the blame beneath the chastise, the fading of every color from the light.
Oh, I am finally kissing my childhood goodbye!

*...and this is mine.