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 Feb 2016 Jack Huang
Àŧùl
And the old ways are not satisfactory enough,
You feel like wanting to marry a petite girl.
A beautiful girl she should be who gives you a feeling pleasurable,
You start dreaming of her imparting satisfaction immeasurable,
Imagine her digging nails into your back as deeper you seep.
Not away from marriage you keep your desires ever,
And the imagination takes the better of your youth,
The volcano accumulates lava & erupts blissfully.
My HP Poem #1022
©Atul Kaushal
 Feb 2016 Jack Huang
Tammy Boehm
What of love
She said you were the pulse of life
From woman to wife
Breathe beneath her skin
You’re just a shot of adrenalin

What of love
Open a vein and bleed the lie
She’s the addict you supply
Lips that drip sap and acid
And you’re death in a pretty package

What of love
Hypodermic words slurred
On a Sunday afternoon blurred
Stop her staccato heart
Drop death in her chest she’s torn apart

What of love
Arrest the damnable dreaming
Chains in the shape of a ring she’s screaming
Saffron dress and daisy chains
She won’t wear it again

What of love
Petty promises her overdose
On the floor of your hotel room comatose
Consolation prize forever after unhappily
No antidote to set her free

What of love
Little girls like lambs to slaughter
Lies make slaves of daughters
Chase the hollow sound of wedding bells
Fed fairy tales In prison cells  
Tl Boehm
04/27/2013
Real love is wonderful - and marriage is a blessing. But doing it for all the wrong reasons is tantamount to tossing your life in the toilet. (Just a random thought - not my personal situation.)
 Feb 2016 Jack Huang
Aris
Him
I want to be your first
I'm just here waiting for your approach
But then I realize, I'm out of your league
You are so perfect! Too bad, I can't be your prince


Her*
You want to be my first?
But why did you left me here so cold?
I've got tired of waiting for you to come and pull me
And then I realize, I'm just the girl that you'll love but never will be your queen
This is not a poem
This is a painting
This is called modern art.
I never got a hang of modern art. I never quite understood why a blue painting with a yellow line could clasify as art.
I see you in my tea,
Because before you would be here, sipping and smiling with me.
And I see you in the flowers,
Because we'd sit amongst the poppies for hours, speaking  over the breeze.
Oh, I see you in the forest,
Because your eyes, they stole their colour from the trees.
Melancholy memories.
It's in the air,
It's in her hair,
It's in her eyes,
In her veins,
In her clothes,
In her lips,
In her heart,
In her soul,
It's in her.
Love is in her.
I'm trying to write poetry more, so it might not all be that good...
 Feb 2016 Jack Huang
Anna Dulaney
he didnt know
what it cost me
to say that to him

he took everything
but i think he gave some
in return

hes all i ever wanted
but i know i will never be
what he wants

my eyes stop at the crinkle
that is him

but his eyes graze over the tear
that is me

so together we pass the paper
that could be us
he wont get out of my head. get out get out get out get out get out!
 Feb 2016 Jack Huang
Àŧùl
Magic
 Feb 2016 Jack Huang
Àŧùl
Of your eyes,
It's a magic.

Innocent voice,
It's a passion.

Whiter lies,
It's a trick.
My HP Poem #1020
©Atul Kaushal
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