Midnight, quiet
woods except the buzz
of dew drop insects
your kisses taste
of fresh honeydew melon
your delicate neck curves
into my shoulder, soft curls
caress your young face

Hidden by foliage
we make sweet innocent love
our hands barely touch
one another, tantalizing
soft fingertips explore
valleys, hills and streams
Our breathing becomes heavy
sighs release between kisses

And just at that moment of release,
a hawk screeches by, covers up our secret.

There is no physical body here
Only emotional bandages:
Layer upon layer added
With each critical cut of your tongue.
Your fits of anger now linger
On the outside, barely visible.

I remember the first bandage,
The beggar in me pleaded for you to stop -
O, the panic that swelled from deep within.
And your need to be right added
Suffocating layers over the years.

The slashing of critical words
Didn’t damage my physical body,
No one could see my pain,
But those slashes have left scars
Deep wounds that may never heal.

Now you’ve made your own critical error:
I take this razor blade, plunge
It deep within my chest, remove
My heart and smash it
Into your damnable face.

I cover my self-inflicted wound, turn
And walk away, just as you made me: heartless.

Trusting you was my first mistake;
being naive enough to believe
you would change was my last.
You shredded my heart
right in front of her;
No one messures up to your standards.

You are savage in your skill:
Find a woman, begin to slowly mold
her into your ideal -
large *******, tiny waist -
she should be prepared for a lifetime
of your rules and righteousness,
your drunken condescending words
until her heart slowly dies
just like mine did.

I am rhyme, you are rhythm,
I pen ivory, you dance ebony
and together, we share
our own classical-hip-hop world.

People still gape
When they see us together
The stark difference of our skin
Yet in nature, we mesh perfectly together.

I am ivory, creamy white chocolate
You are ebony, dark hardened chocolate
Melted together, our offsprings
Become butterscotch and milk chocolate

What beauty the world beholds in children.

This is not a death camp for bards,
but a river which flows
sometimes freely, sometimes stagnated,
words linger for days
until something knocks them loose.

Gushing verses pour forth
to gain and lose meaning, design,
even precious rhymes held dear.
Because in poetry therapy,
there is no rhyme or reason,
just open the dams and let it all out.

Whose melancholy love
slumbers in your serene arms?
She is darkness incarnate,
and you've become corrupted by fate.
Her savage fingers linger
on your blood soaked chest.
You merely thought...
what great ***** ***!
You poor fool...
She is beyond your reasoning,
unexplainable, but you are hooked.
By morning, she will be gone,
leaving you wanting more.
Addiction for her
will become a self-driven sword.