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 Jun 2012 Kayla
Jim Ellis
You never felt mutual,
but I don't really care.
I don't know if that's true,
so my judgement is unfair...

When I wanted to see you,
you cut me off. Why?
Is it because you see
that I'm soft,
and gentle,
but more of a man,
than you've ever seen?
Or maybe you can't
comprehend what's
in between?

When I read my poem
about my mom, I looked around
at everybody in the classroom,
and your head was down.

That showed me
you're weak to emotion
and have been sheltered.
My goal was clear:
I knew I wanted
to help her.

Expose you to this world,
and show you love,
I suppose you're
like a dove
Peaceful, and pure
with style,
But innocent too so
this could take a while...

Me being impatient,
won't get to you quicker
But the longer it takes,
only makes me sicker.

Then came this
irking feeling
when I thought
of something:

What if me
meeting you
ended as "we"
being nothing.

I hope that's not true,
so I'll just end with this.
It's a pleasure to know you,
and also to write this.

Love, Jimmy
 Jun 2012 Kayla
Robert G Page
by
rgpage


nuzzled tightly to his chest
she quietly begs him stay,
her gentle touch  along his arms
says ‘please my love don’t go away.’

her soft lips tenderly touch his mouth
with kisses as warm as a summer’s eve.
wrapping her tightly in his arms
he lets her know that he won’t soon leave.

staring wistfully into each other’s eyes
as busy fingers silently toil,
garments loosened and cast aside,
as eager love’s longing begins its slow boil.

taking their time and guarding their urges
not letting this passion’s moment be lost.
to inner emotions brought to a boil
so often the payment of love’s urgent cost.

with muscles taut he draws her near
while inner butterflies stretch their wings.
naked bodies as yet unexplored  
a course is set toward splendorous things.

kissing, caressing, an **** of motion
his fingertips track her silky soft skin.
his huge hands gently cupping her *******,
embarked on an evening of beautiful sin.

with a look in her eyes of a young lover’s trance
her hands glide o’er his youthful frame.        
in time  fingers find their way to their mark
his desire’s aroused in love’s youthful game.    

to bed now they go with its cool sheets waiting
they’ve said that they’ll know when the time is right.
   supporting her frame as he lowers her down
for them their time’s now as their bodies unite.
 Jun 2012 Kayla
K Balachandran
your sweet murmurings
tickle the evening,
look! the sky is blushing,
it's all red in the western horizon.

with your soft breath,
you make the atmosphere sweet,
hey, the honey bee is confused,
it comes round and round,
like an enamored lover!

with your sonorous snore,
the dreamy night
gets goosebumps,
fools call them stars
and gloat how they gleam!

have you ever thought,
what my love to you,
does to me every minute?
my heart palpitates
like i have an affliction
only love can cause,
and do away with.

*words never can express well,
how do i feel,
when you are away
and my eyes crave for you in sight.
Daily love.net  12/1/11
                       Deep down, there is a romantic in each one.
 Jun 2012 Kayla
Matthew Cuellar
(In the now, once again.)

Baby, I'm growing wings.
And if what you say is true,
you might just want
to do something around the same...
at least build a plane.

I don't want empty promises
or false hopes to hang onto...
I create those enough in my dreams
while plotting my made-up schemes...

You asked
If I can do that with you...
I can only think of strong answers
that are not ANYTHING but true.

Don't act like you're the one waiting
...I feel like my heart is palpating
when I think of you and the dreams
I wish were true.

Can't we please just rewind...
I now know your mistakes
and mine.

Just don't promise that we can start again
unless you're serious, this time
about letting me in.
Written by Matthew Allan Cuellar
 Jun 2012 Kayla
Quentin Briscoe
Blank man......
Mind full of emptiness..
Aqua man..
Mind full of water...
Bat man...
Mind full of wealth...
Super man
Mind full of Lois Lane...

Speeding stoping amtrak trains...
And she still on his brain
Do you want that love
do you desire that love
Well my name is Clark Kent
And I can acquire that Love
Super human love
Kind that God sent
and save you from it all.

You just be yourself
Dont ever have to change
And I'll provide you wealth
For nothings out of range
All the creatures in the sea
Will envy you and me
Cuz they will never have
this love that makes us glad

This super human love
speeding train feeling
Polar bear hugs
No baby your not dreaming
As I stated once before
My name is Quentin Briscoe
And Im your superman
Your one and only hero....
there is a part of you i know—

and already love

the part that sits me up on your bed and tells me stories of

yourself with bright brown eyes and

luscious lips

takes me as a whole pill in the

middle of the night

silently collapsing on top of me

( not ripping or tearing)

just softly removing

abstract pieces of my hips

and stuffing them like orchid petals

in your hands

that is the part i understand and can communicate with exceptionally well

that is the part i consume

day after day when you’re no

longer around

but there is another part—

full of questions and concerns

and blank expressions in the middle of

the day watching football

drinking beers and not wanting

to ignite the magical chemistry

the sensuality you possess most of the

time when no one is there

and you are laughing so loud and

talking about things i don’t know

anything about and your

bright brown eyes turn into

silver wings and i’m trying trying

trying trying to keep up

steadily

but i get lost in your sea of

child like gestures and weak

thoughts; in your attempts to

make me eat food and smile on

que; in your belly where the guilt

sets in for something you know i

did not do;

in you,

without strong hands and

heavy eyelids without come heres

and delicate kisses without

these things the days pile up

and taste like

rubbing alcohol
according to you, love doesn’t like hot weather and
sweaty palms and cheap beer
it doesn’t hear any orchestras or go
to any movies and buy popcorn and soda
and defintely does not agree to
feed the birds at the park pieces of
a leftover subway sandwich

according to him, love does not fancy astrology or
icecream sandwiches and it never
gets it’s body wet ( let alone it’s hair)
in the swimming pool at a party
it was never invited to

according to the anonymous
love likes to sit
love likes to smoke
love likes to watch reruns of all
the television shows your mom had
a digusting addiction to


it loves boring routines;
the 9 to 5
and it doesn’t mind
being mentally drained
and unprepared for any
emotional stability

but according to me
love just likes to hide
in peoples clothes,
in lacy underwear and size 32 jeans

it likes pretending
it’s not there  and it enjoys
convincing you,
it is


not

but no matter what is said;
there is an undeniable
light in that room,
as he slides his body over
yours
weightlessly in
the dark and
it starts in your stomach—
escapes through your mouth
and it becomes the moon
above the both
of you

take my advice here—
always look for
it before
it notices you
doing so and
completely
disappears

because love isn’t
half as bad as
it’s been told to be

all you need to do
is learn to
cover your ears
 Jun 2012 Kayla
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
     In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
     What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?

     I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
     I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
     I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
     We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
     Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
     (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
     Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
     Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
     Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?

                                   Berkeley 1955
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