by definition,
lust is
extreme ****** desire for someone

by nature,
lust is
uncontrollable...
I'm attracted to my thirty-seven year old male teacher
and my eighteen year old male coworker
and the quirky girl who sits behind me in history,
what?

by religion,
lust is
a sin, punishable by Hell,
whatever that is.

lust is unavoidable,
but socially unacceptable to act upon.

I know that they’ve got it better
But I can’t understand
Why I fall flat
Want someone to look at me like that

It’s hard to see the lovers
When I left it behind
For something with meaning
The things I’m dreaming

I hope that I will find
Just what I had in mind
And these thoughts inside
Will come alive

Hey, where did you go?
You have such a beautiful voice,
And though I've never heard it,
And I've only ever read it,
It always sounded so wonderful through your prose.

I miss seeing your thoughts.
I think I've read you,
Straight through,
sEVEN times at least.
It's been since February that
You finished your work from January.
I want to know your mind again.

You started
Me.

You told me I was good,
A shock after my first attempt.
It electrocuted my doubts,
And saw sparks bursting from my creative capacitors.

Then you told me to grow some *****.

Well...
You can't change everything.


Then you said you wished somebody would write you the way I wrote her.


Hmmm...


When I call words to mind
And haphazardly plaster my paper with them
They're really just scattered collections,
Lessons in literature I've unconsciously taken from my favorite authors.

So,
Really,
You're already in every poem I write.

My favorite authors are the minds
That create bodies for themselves
From the bodies of their work and skill.

Well,
When you write,
You embody the poem.
All I see in those lines is your hand,
Back bent over your thoughts,
Wringing perfection from English.

Point is,
My poetry is already partly you.
But why would you want
A poem of you
Written by somebody like me
When your own poetry
Is more you than I could ever hope to be,
And when you are such a brilliant writer anyway?

400 odd days
some might
accept it,
but with you
I am dead.
filled with water
to my sunken eyebrows.

the tigers now walk with me.
the ones that
walked back and forth
as shadows.
that was not love.
no beast,
nor growl
has found love.

I am without sight
of your
wiry lips.
the ones that quivered
like most ponds do,
having life beneath them.
yours did not.

the tigers sit,
ending tail on my legs
over blankets.
i wish to talk
with them
but like me
they have fallen.

hell
within four hundred,
your legs
that bruise so easily
your guilt
your selfish appetite for
love.

take all of my water
and leave
this place.
the tigers pervert me now.

If I could
I would spend the seconds of each minute and each day daydreaming
Melting into the earth-
Evaporating
Into arms
Into time
I'd take my fingertips and run them over the sky
From one side back to the next
stringing each star along
Until one after the other they become perfectly aligned
Creating an exquisite display
A mural among the galaxies
It's showcase to the lucky-
The breathing, unbiased
Each person a spectacle
Setting fire to clouds-
to our cities
And to the lips of another's
Hands taking in the bodies design
Sparking the fluttering of eyes
It's the passion that keeps us remembering we are alive

We are the lucky ones-
The bitter hearts that once were have been set free

(C) Tiffanie Doro