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SMS Sep 6
Boring was never a word to describe her
She was unique and exotic
Hair falling below her *******
Bangs tickling the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose
Her eyelashes swooped outward
Trapping anyone brave enough to meet her heated gaze
Her shoulders draped in the softest of silk
Blouse pulled taught and fitted into her belt.
Top button undone leaving the smallest sliver of skin begging to be touched.
Her hips swayed to the beat of her slacks
Making swishing noises as her thighs
Soft and plump rubbed the pant seams
stepping on her tippy toes to avoid the clickety clacks usually emitted from her signature well worn combat boots
She was far from boring
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2020
To entertain
means to be starkers
and dance with veils,
to exoticize war
and tremble in
a thousand rhythms.
Bejeweled as a spy,
nevertheless,
don't know why.
Eye of the day,
and a dozen matchlocks
had me inertly settle
upon my knees,
before bending at my waist
to take one last look
at the fiery heavens.
Thomas W. Case's Historical Figure Poetry Challenge, Mata Hari.
Amy Perry Jun 2020
You are the most beautiful,
Exquisite, exotic flower
To ever grow between
Overlooked sidewalk cement
And I adore you.

I wonder when the rest will see.
abp
Àŧùl Sep 2019
Oh my love, you are so youthful,
And you are so beautiful.

Oh my love, you are so exotic,
And you are so energetic.

Oh my love, you are so pretty,
And you are such a cutie.

Marrying you will do good,
Let me be finally blessed.
My HP Poem #1772
©Atul Kaushal
b for short Aug 2019
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole ******* sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.

“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.

White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Copyright Bitsy Sanders, August 2019
William A Poppen Apr 2019
To follow her is to
Twist and turn through life

Attempt to squirm free
And once more
her exotic scent
captivates you

At least your suffering
Is keen and intense

Every physical contortion
Only constricts her hold

Most predict despite
Numerous gyrations
The end will be catastrophic
*Merriam-Webster word for the day, April 24, 2019
Badshah Khan Feb 2019
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 41

BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem

Who can not bear the infinite pain of eternal love!

He can not reap the exotic fruit of eternal love!

Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem

Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust)
Kiara Hoxie Jan 2019
The child holds in their hand a stunning flower
Beautiful, exotic and rare
They pull the glowing flower apart in a colorful shower
The soft, velvety petals rip and tear
Fluttering slowly to the ground
The bright pieces stand out against the gloomy floor
No one can hear the flower's silent screeching sound
Of being ripped from the core
The wind blows the fading petals into the dark abyss
The child tosses the stem aside, and skips away in bliss
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