Your hands
holding my face
gently stroke
my cheeks
with your thumbs
making me
blush

you undress my heart
so delicately
untill I drown
breathlessly
in your embrace


love me as you wish

I fell deep into your abyss
drowning into lust
I swim yet your torrent
drag me down under.

Beyond my last breathe
I resign to sigh my regret
I died in your arms
Loving you was my sin.

I'm longing to jot these lines today,
I love your poetry and what you say!
Some minds are strong, some minds are weak,
I think it's great on how you think!
I feel your pain, I feel your sorrow,
I'll read your poems today and tomorrow!
Some of your poems are one of a kinds,
They hit me so hard and stay on my mind!
I feel the hurt, the aching inside,
I feel the depression it's so hard to hide!
Some souls are happy,
Some souls are sad!
Some hearts will cry,
For loved ones they lost.

Have you ever been madly in love?

The old man broke my reverie.

On the long faded green bench white with bird droppings
he was peering at me through his silver grey beard
looking oddly out of place in that college squire park
where only the dreamers at the prime of youth
would sit between classes to exchange love notes
and steal a kiss when the passion couldn't be reined in.

Have you ever been madly in love? he repeated,
and then as if growing impatient by my silence
mumbled, pausing between words,
like they stung him like thorns
it extracts a price been paying all my life
living with a void no other woman could fill
a commitment that breeds only pain
yet makes me insanely boastful
of being madly in love.

It was recess hour and the benches were being filled up.

How many, I wondered, would still hold hands
when the classes are over.

You are like a mountain, not a
sublime snow-capped mountain in
Colorado, or like the Cerro Torre in
Argentina and Chili.
Not like
the Ama Dablam in Nepal.
But you seem like a
mountain nonetheless.
A mountain that obscures
the beauty of the
majestic sunrise,
and the grandeur of life.
A mountain that
smothers love and
everything glorious.
Maybe you aren't
a mountain at all.
Perhaps you're an
ant hill, dragging
dead souls into
your busy hole.
I climbed you, and
was so enamored with
your beauty, I missed
your charade and
masquerade.