Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
sgholterPoems
I Thirsty now; mouth dry like A desert wanderer's, Single man in solitude Swiping right and Not even caring Too much. Just looking for trouble; Microwave-romance, softness; A face that fits my hand. Guitars gathering dust, begging St. Gibson for inspiration To shake their owner into Lust fuelled Songwriting; string breaking, pick Melting, voice straining. For now, the last of five litres of Italian red is floating bellywards; Bloodwards; headwards; Heartwards, and the drinker writes Text message poetry with drops of Wine hiding in barley beard too Full for an old mother's appreciation. I owe her a grandchild. She says poems don't count. II Thirsty now; heart dry like one Not recalling love, not remembering A woman's hungry hands on The back of one's Warm, wet head, pulling, nails Digging, Teeth biting beard. Skin kissing skin. Soul seeing soul and Celebrating. Sweet illusion of love. I create a bed-sharer on canvas. I compose a breakfast-eater at my table. A listener to my songs, Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler, Rainstorm-listener. I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely My neurons dancing. Ears to hear My compliments. Hair to brush Away from between Our lips mid-kiss. I finish my wine. Could have made nearly painful Love to her For ages and Aeons, but I Create her temporarily; Fleeting image of a speaking doll. *Hold me like tears on something Golden. Hold me like an acid Trip fading into reality.* She says poems don't count. She says Poems Don't really Count.
0
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
A Face that Fits my Hand (She Says Poems don't Count)
I Thirsty now; mouth dry like A desert wanderer's, Single man in solitude Swiping right and Not even caring Too much. Just looking for trouble; Microwave-romance, softness; A face that fits my hand. Guitars gathering dust, begging St. Gibson for inspiration To shake their owner into Lust fuelled Songwriting; string breaking, pick Melting, voice straining. For now, the last of five litres of Italian red is floating bellywards; Bloodwards; headwards; Heartwards, and the drinker writes Text message poetry with drops of Wine hiding in barley beard too Full for an old mother's appreciation. I owe her a grandchild. She says poems don't count. II Thirsty now; heart dry like one Not recalling love, not remembering A woman's hungry hands on The back of one's Warm, wet head, pulling, nails Digging, Teeth biting beard. Skin kissing skin. Soul seeing soul and Celebrating. Sweet illusion of love. I create a bed-sharer on canvas. I compose a breakfast-eater at my table. A listener to my songs, Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler, Rainstorm-listener. I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely My neurons dancing. Ears to hear My compliments. Hair to brush Away from between Our lips mid-kiss. I finish my wine. Could have made nearly painful Love to her For ages and Aeons, but I Create her temporarily; Fleeting image of a speaking doll. *Hold me like tears on something Golden. Hold me like an acid Trip fading into reality.* She says poems don't count. She says Poems Don't really Count.
sgholter
Written by
sgholter
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem