In moonlit woods, with no one near,
Madison and her lover clear,
A playful glance, a daring smile,
They knew they’d linger here awhile.

He slipped his hand in her sweatpants tight,
His touch ignited pure delight.
Her ******* soaked, her body warm,
He slid in fingers, slow and calm.

With a come-hither, soft and sweet,
He stroked her till she felt complete.
His fingers danced in rhythmic tease,
Her moans grew loud, her pleasure pleased.

He pressed her **** with firm intent,
Her body quivered, passion spent.
Exploring depths, each secret spot,
Her hips replied, her breath grew hot.

Her ****** built, her cries did soar,
In waves of pleasure, she implored.
With one last ******, she reached her peak,
A cry of joy, her knees grew weak.

In shared delight, their bond grew tight,
A secret kept from that moonlit night.
Each meet they had, a new delight,
In those deep woods, pure passion's height.
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Did we ge

It's a merry day,

we dance on the earth *****:


feet full of music.

Hit the brake!
Hit it, quick!
We're going too fast,
Destination unknown,
We're going into a car crash,
That's well known!

We didn't just met, apparently
We're bound to be collided,
Been gaining traction
Now it's unavoided
In this autopilot
The prisoner has gone mad,
madenned

This is not going where they think it is
Hidden agenda of fate is always a surprise
A gem or a granade trap,
Or both in one
Scary nor exciting
Help ourselves, we must hit it now!

The music can't go

bad, so everyone enjoys --


beating his heart out.

You said, “how do you do that… with the words?”
I said, “well, I know the English language…”
You said, “but the way you use it, I mean.”
I said, “Everything is poetry.”

So, you sat down with your mom
and you had a tough conversation
At the end, she asked you-
“how did you say all that to me?”
to which you answered-
“well, I know the English language.”
She said, “but the way you said it.”
and you replied, “Everything is poetry.”

Your mom went to bed early that night
and thought deeply about the end of that exchange
She pulled paper out of her printer the next morning
and she started writing
Nothing in particular- a stream of consciousness
A friend at work found this paper
and she read it out of concern for your mom-
she had been acting off
She went to your mom and she said,
“I love what you have written here.”
to which your mom replied-
“well, I know the English language.”
The friend continued,
“Yes, but what you say with it…”
Your mother’s response was, of course,
“Everything is poetry.”

The friend from work mentioned that conversation to her struggling artist boyfriend
He scoffed, feeling belittled in his craft, yet newly inspired.
There was an open mic that night
and he unveiled a new poem he’d been working on all week
At the end, an audience member called out-
“That ******!”
to which he responded-
“Everything *****.”

Things come and go.
Like people I suppose.
We play games to pass the time.
Roll dice on gambles.
Take chances with our lives.
Only there is no collecting when coming full circle.
That's called a mistake.
So we jump to other boards.
Hoping we aren't sorry.
Realizing there is no perfection.
Trying to balance every risk.
Like we ever had a clue.
Some try so hard.
While others scoff at effort.
What is the right combo that will lead to the end game.
It's like an ever changing rubix cube.
So many patterns to memorize.
But doing the same thing.
Over.
And over.
Is that living.
Or insanity.
Whatever it's called.
One thing is certain.
We shall never get bored.
Playing with our demons.