Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The perfect amount of salt
It dissolves in my mouth
Melting on my pancakes
Complimented with sugary flakes
Dipped in syrupy lakes
My fruit salad with grapes
Bananas and apples too
It's too yummy to be true
While butter is still melting
I dig in, it tastes overwhelming
~12/5/21
<3
Past Mar 24
This is tyranny,
this is malicious,
this is undeniably done out of contempt.
The ire of this man cannot be expressed.
This is gluttony,
this is sinful,
take your coins and feed on the poor.
Sleep at night.
In the peaceful hours of dawn,
don’t blink and eye,
for I have ****** of my mind.
Flynn Feb 14
You slid into my life,
easy as a knife through butter.
not like margarine,
of that I'm less keen
hanging out with you... ****** Nora
it's as easy as flowers via inter-Flora

You butter believe I'm here to stay

we're about half-way
and by this point, I'm sure you'll say
you wrote me a poem,
but I can't believe its not butter.
so come on Flynn...
Lurpak it in.
For the spirit of Valentine's, and the love of butter
Izzy Jan 28
I am simply a lemon
I like to think I’m sweet
But I am just a sour soul that you can never eat


I am simply a lemon
with bright happy yellow skin
But, on the inside I am just a sin


Add a bit of sugar and I’ll be bitter sweet
But once the sugar fades away your destin for defeat

I am not a sweet little boy
I’m sour as can be
Why am I a lemon and not a strawberry
EmperorOfMine Dec 2020
Turn the lights on,
so you can see my body
shimmering,
glazed by the honey shea cocoa butter.
Like a crystal reflecting the vanilla notes of the sweet somethings floating off of your tongue.

I come to you, eyes focused on yours.
You mean so much to me,
enough for me to expose my body.
Look at me,
Tell me, what do you see...

I don't usually crave milk chocolate,
the warm and hypnotic taste,
pouring down my throat,
into my spirit.

I can't help it right now,
Because you have my hips in your grip,

Rocking and falling,
swinging and calling
baby
baby
I feel intoxicated in this honey shea cocoa butter.

I bite my lip,
and I reach in for a kiss
slipping,
sliding,
my mouth and yours,
reaching for each other,
to get closer
Caressing your body,
with my fingers,
writing love tones with my features

Trailing your art with my words,
writing them all with my tongue,
down
down
down


you're looking at me,
but not with just your eyes
exposed,
Your body's staring back at me too
shimmering with the honey shea cocoa butter

I didn't use to be this way
At least not with anyone else
But then you touched my soul
So Let me touch yours too

Shamed by my body for so long,
scars,
marks,
a healing broken heart.

Walls built by the past,
I didn't think I'd meet a soul that could get through the last
But you're a surprise

Looking at me
A hot chocolate serenity,
Love bites,
******* on your skin,
let me in
I want to touch your soul too

Let's make love, like a love poem can do
Steve Page Apr 2020
When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.
Grew up in the 60s and 70s. Butter was seem as a luxury not to be wasted.
s Mar 2020
Today, I watched my tea come to a boil, and likened the first bubble on its surface to the sighting of an evening star at sunset.

I missed the fire of a gas stove in the undramatic simmer of my tea, as I patiently waited for the induction to heat the milk pan.

The sky looks like the backdrop of an old studio here on many days, I thought, and photographed the unnatural blue to lemon gradient. Maybe I'll use it as my background on the next zoom call.

As the world shares a somber summer vacation together, I don't know how to feel anymore.

It was a poor film about old Mumbai that brought me to tears, because I've forgotten how to discern good content from bad.

The dark circles are fading, and I catch myself, too often, thinking about my nine year old self, intently cutting magazines into meaningful compositions.

I always made do with staying inside.

It feels wrong to be at peace, but the indoors are doing to my skin what socks do to my feet.

I'm worried about not having enough sanitary pads, and also about entering the job market during a recession. I don't feel useful either.

I am however, counting my blessings and my breaths these days. It's like we're all living in a dream that doesn't make sense in the morning, or in a meme that isn't funny anymore, or in a game that has run so long that we've lost track of who's winning anyway.

I'm grateful we don't have to have an opinion these days, at least for a while.

I'm grateful for this cup of tea, and toasted bread and butter, mostly because it's suddenly okay to simply watch the tea boil, and think untethered thoughts about the toasted bread and butter.
Grace Haak Sep 2019
hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum

i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory

my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon
Next page