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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
Past Mar 2021
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 2021
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 2021
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
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
I feel intoxicated in this honey shea cocoa butter.

I bite my lip,
and I reach in for a kiss
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,

you're looking at me,
but not with just your eyes
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,
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.
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
shamamama Sep 2019
how to make ghee
how to to clarify,
place the salt free butter in pan
turn the heat on very low,
then just listen............
then sounds of drizzling rain for a while grow
to a creek starting to flow
then hear the steady rain pelting on leaves
(if it starts to sound like popcorn,
maybe turn the heat down),
then let the rain keep
trodding, until
it gets quieter
and quieter
and quiet
haven't done so in awhile, love making ghee
annh Jul 2019
If I want
flour, water, yeast, and churned cream
I’ll consult a dictionary;

If I want
a loaf of raised hopes which she spread thinly with the charity of others
I’ll read a novel;

If I want
unleavened lassitude, greasy with the guilt of neglected privilege
I’ll write poetry.
‘Always be a poet, even in prose.’
- Charles Baudelaire
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