I am tired of your words manipulating my heart and making me wet.
I want the real thing, I want to feel your words as you have them on the page.
I want my heart to pound, I want my flesh in searing heat, I want to feel your grith as your body rise and falls on me. Stop playing games and physically manipulate me.
Your mind... deadly.
Your word play... heavy.
To be hunted, No! ravaged by you, a linguistic puppeteer.
Put that pen down and come over here and **** me already.
We as poets especially us who can write sensual poetry we tend to be more flirtatious or is it me? have you ever found yourself with the right words to say and do you think its because of you being a poet?
Your voice changed my mood like a chameleon. Flooding my mind in deep nostalgia, I am surrounded by reminders of what pleasures we partook, we indulged, we unapologetically did, we confidently said and we therapeutically wanted. We ravaged, we begged, we were human.
Your scent still leaves a trace that even a bloodhound could find. Roses, vanilla and a hint of cinnamon; my tongue tingles from the pleasure of closing my eyes, reanimating the masterpiece that went down at your unguarded borders.
But I kept it cool when you introduced your new boyfriend. 'Hello this is__' I replied 'What's up, the names Kitarō'.
But as I spoke, I could tell we were harmoniously in sync when he called out your name twice; no response escaped your lips, The third time triggered your body to respond; when your crimson lips were finally free from it's white prison it was photographically known of what was unsaid on your beautiful luscious red painted canvases.
I bumped into an Asian woman who blew my mind, her mental was on point, her word play confused my thoughts and left me begging for more. She was like my favorite song I would play all day long; an ear worm so to speak.
Her swag and her grace left me weak. Her whispers alone sounded loud in my ear, she had my undivided attention; my thoughts and tongue was ready to say her name.
Blood rushing, flooding, overtaking, heart fluttering and pulsing... This woman is going to be the death of me.
Who was this woman!?
Who is she!?
Who is her!?
The way she commanded the room and walked, so soft spoken and a smile that made poets of poets inspired to write, **** she made it look effortless.
She was in a class of her own.
**** she was.
**** she is.
**** is her.
Who is this woman?!
**** was that woman that left me thinking of her like an afterburn on a fighter jet.
She wore nothing provocative nor transparent but yet, her presence alone had me contemplating, stumbling and mumbling as if I was in a drunken stupor.
****, I should of said: Hello, my name is Kitarō.
I hope the title was not offensive... I do emplore fellow HP's to indulge in some titles if y'all so wish to do.