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I like pens that bleed
Ink that smears
Girls with scars
Broken parts
***** clothes
Stained sheets
The hint of blood
The taste of lust
The smells of love
Nights through morning
Mornings to night
Suns that sleep
Moons that dream
And all the pretty
You hide underneath
Those pretty
Pretty
Pretty things
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|             ☆     |
|                     |
|                     |
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a
single
star
as
seen
through
my
window

­who
knew
stars
could
be
held
in
a

*box?
☆☆♡♡♡ HELLO POETRY ♡♡♡☆☆

Thank you all so much for your support of my work! This was such a pleasant surprise!
I wish I could thank each and every one of you who is commenting and responding to this piece. Unfortunately things are happening at my home which are beyond my control. My dad wasn't feeling well. He's better now but he still has a lump in his right cheek. He had had cancer at the base of his tongue and this is in the same area. Thank you for your prayers and well wishes! They are greatly appreciated!

I'm just putting everything in God's hands.
 Aug 2015 Sumit Bhaintwal
ji
I have a sweet tooth
   for chocolate
   chip cookies
   tonight.

And you told me--
   you have not
   even a
   bite.

But I say,
   darling,
   your lips
   are just as right.
//081915
 Jul 2015 Sumit Bhaintwal
ryan
The hazel moons sits in a
night black with mascara;
her freckles stars like chocolate
flecks in her cream skin,

and from this park bench I
gaze into that Sky hairs breadths
from my  face, and understand
what a goddess she
truly is.
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.
Sometimes we run
into the arms of a terrible person
just trying to escape a broken heart
because loneliness has been known
to taste like warm whiskey,
parliament lights and the kiss
of a lack luster lover who spent more time
trying to lie you between the covers
than they did learning to say your name
out loud, you know the type.
I'd be lying too if I didn't say
I've been that kind, that tall glass of water
promising to dampen a dry tongue
which ain't got the courage to say I'm sorry,
not to nobody else but to themselves.

So I want apologize for not seeing
or perhaps ignoring how crushed you were
when I rolled you up in my arms
the way hikers do sleeping bags
and I held you in my lap
because the car was packed
and I didn't know where else to put you.
You must have felt safe there
thinking you were the place
for me to lay my head on this road trip
we call life, but little did you know
had the trunk not been full
I would have been sitting alone
face aglow from my cellular phone
texting other women,
probably with a smile.

I am here to tell you, you deserve better
and I don't want you ever settle
for anything less than a lover's embrace
because comfort plus time
equals unease on your mind.
Worrying whether this companion of yours
has become a stone tied to your heart
with a heavy rope and its tugging you down
into the dark blue depths
filling your lungs with ice cold seawater
with every last breath.

I want you to be with someone
you can chase for the rest of your life
and when you get tired of swimming
they won't leave you treading,
chumming shark infested waters
with blood from a poorly stitched heart
but they will follow and follow
until you both find that deserted island,
that paradise you promised one another.
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