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***
***

Sensual, explicit, extraordinary

FOREPLAY

Communication, touches, eye contact, spiritual pull.

Passion, Intimacy, ***

***.
The combination of raw, untamed energy,
Unsuccessfully molded into one.
Bursting with each arch
Burning with each grunt.

Heart thumping to each melody
Mind so white as bliss rockets out her body.

***
Caress your thighs,
Let me strum and create a band
drum and create a symphony
key and harness the harmony
Let me orchestrate your body while you sing for me.

***,
Let me whisper a Terza rima
“Do you want to be ******?”

Foreplay.
Grazing your thigh, looking away
Small subtle smile appearing.
Sneak peeks, blushing, lip biting.

HUNGER
There’s a hunger,
A craving for more.
Chest thumping, heart stumping

Slowly, I exhale
Deeper I go into this autumn forest
Lost and excited about this evening breeze.

“Touch me”, I whisper
As each part of you covers, marks what is within me.

Licks, bites... more!
Heavy breathing
Tongue twisting.

My voice wishes to be heard.
Unleash your inner beast,
Burn me
Warm me
I’m raging wet and cold!

Intimacy, Passion

Call out your soul,
Mine humbly and impatiently awaits,
Restrict your outer,
It’s time for your inner to shine.

Let me paint you with a colour of four,
With each stroke, call out your soul
Mine painfully awaits.

Sing to me
I’ll compose you a piece
One of meant for a goddess.

Before you reach your peak
Call out to my soul.
And fully feel me devour you.

***
Foreplay
Intimacy

Crave my passion
Want, need and be given
Come!
Explore the beauty of the pearl!
art
in a world full of colour,
i am a blank canvas.
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Ain't no sun shines brighter than the one that burns me
I'm a writer but I can't get the words out
And to some extent that thought haunts me,
It daunts, haunts me.
It plays melodies of depression,
Symphonies that require expressions,
Harmonies that need synchronizing
But keep agonizing
Keep agitating
Aggrevating

Demoralizing my need.

When last did you write?
When next will you write?
Where's your freedom of expression?
Is it drowning in your mild depression?
What happened to your passion?
Your sense of poetic style and fashion?
What's up with this caution?

Did at some point poetry break you?
Or the need to give your heart to specific words hurt your need?

What's going on?

"Hell, I just can't write. I can't put up a fight, I'm out of my mind. Traveling in  a mental continuum searching for constellations that will support my mode of writing and give me the strength that I need"

That's more than enough to make us wait then.
poetry passion love depression feelings confusion writersBlock
I know I'm running out of time
fear has stolen what is mine
legs stuck, unable to move
too many roads in life, which one to choose?
2 steps forward , 5 steps back
my life's purpose is under attack
I hate defeat, can't stand to lose
**** this mid twenties blues
I have a friend,
he utters no words,
he passes no judgements.
He is my companion through the darkest of nights,
and in my most joyous delights.
He's stable,
dependable,
even as the world retreats, often abhorred by the essence of me
he keeps his place,
he is pen and paper,
he is poetry.
Inspired by a poem , I just wish I remembered its name.
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