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The water droplets on your back glisten like diamonds.
How can I not want you?
Your hair is slicked back with shampoo lathered in your dark waves.
How can I not desire you?
You ever so carefully take the soap and cascade it down your arms and legs.
What could be better than this?
You look at me,
Standing under the water,
With my curls falling down on my shoulders.
You touch my cheek, ever so gently, and
You smile.
What could ever compare to this moment?
You pull me closer to you;
You wrap your arms around me.
Just you and I, under the hot water, with steam clouding in the air. (With the occasional bubble)
***** as ever,
And still, I have never felt so clean.
I am poetry.
My back is the spine.
My arms turn into the cover.
My fingers smooth into pages.
The prints printed on my thumbs bleed words.

I am a poem,
Every single part of me.
I am all the thoughts the human race has ever had.
I am the mother, I am the dad.

When you want a piece of poetry to feed your mind—
I'll peel the layers off my thumb, ‘til they form sentences,
I'll bend my fingers back, back until they turn into stanzas,
I'll snap my arms crooked, ‘til they cry out titles,
I'll arch my back, and screech as they brand me with the name of my owner.

I am a haiku.
The original OG.
You can't handle me.

I am a sonnet,
Betrothed to Shakespeare.
Like a kid learning his alphabet, and he gets stuck on G:
AB(AB)-CD(CD)-EF(EF)-GG.
My couplets are more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet could ever be.

I am T.S Eliot here to sing you love songs—
Don’t you cast me to The Waste Land.

I am Maya Angelou ‘bout to free the bird from its cage—
And still I rise.

I am Emily Dickinson finally stopping for death—
You can’t **** me.

I am living, breathing poetry.
My veins bleed poetry—fear this blood.
My eyes cry poetry—see these words.
My shampoo brand is poetry—feel these curls.

Rise,
Stand,
And take up the pen.
Poetry is our oxygen.
Let us all breathe it in.

Our words will save this nation.
From a simple sentence to a conversation.

We are poetry.
We will save the world.

You are poetry.
You can change the world.

I am poetry.
Use me to save this world!

And when I finally die,
I'll be reincarnated into a tree.
I'll be turned into pages for the next poets to use.
And when they do—
    
I'll be free.
Jodie-Elaine Mar 14
We talk politics in the shower.
You shampoo your beard,
I condition my armpit hair.
Good morning coffee breath.
I love you like a palindrome.
Tragic comedy, our physical love stretched
thin
over distance.
Endings always differ.
Moon circles scream it’s raining on me.
Serotonin’s been locked up for years, I put her somewhere safe.
Check you’re alive with a finger *****, comedy of errors sings an ode in my left ear.
Here
beard bristles
brush hair
light back catch
sensitivity sits
less lower lip
fold
selves
in
scene end
stage right
pick up towel
EXIT.
Collection: PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS
MisfitOfSociety Sep 2018
Okay,
It goes like this you see.

10pm, on a late thursday evening. I was sweating like a ****** in church. I grabbed my armbands and turned on the shower. It was cold as ice to the touch, but begun to warm up eventually. Thank god my wife remembered to turn the geezer on or else I was going to slap a *****, create waves of flesh on that **** *** face of hers.


Anyway.
After stripping down to my birthday suit, I popped on some shampoo and spreaded that **** in my hair. Creating a burning sensation, tingly, like ants crawling in my head.
Suddenly I was smacked like an unwanted child by the smell of burnt toast in the air,
with the shampoo still sitting in my hair.
I turned around and right before me, something was coming out of the plug hole, like something out of a b-rated horror movie.
Looking like my wife's homemade cooking, **** was alive, and then it lunged at me.
I tell you, if it was not for those Tom Cruise movies lecturing me in the art of total *** kicking, I would be a dead naked man with armbands in a tub, being eaten by the unholy guacamole.

You gotta believe me,
when I tell this story,
This was not all in my head,
You can't just write off what I have said.
I know it must sound insane,
But a mexican's lunch crawled out of the drain,
I beat it's *** like a drum,
like Lars Ulrich at a metallica concert ,
and sent the **** back down the hole it crawled out of.
The devil wanted to bring me down to the deep end,
It is a good thing I bought my arm bands.
What the absolute ****.
Salmabanu Hatim Jun 2018
At one
Life had begun,
I could walk,that was fun,
Always smothered with kisses,mummy's yummy bun.
At two,
I grew too,
Did everything I wanted to do,
Again and again,then undo,
Refused to go to the loo,
Loved to spill the shampoo,
Stubborn as a mule,
With tears, buckets of boo.
At three ,
I was free,
No pampers,mum in glee,
Went to loo to ***,
Hated milk, loved tea,
Fell often, grazed my knees.
At four,
Could do small chores,
Wipe a spill on the floor,
For visitors open door,
My own clothes I wore,
A glass of water I could pour.
At five,
I was alive,
A queen bee in a hive,
I learned to thrive,
First time I learned to swim and dive.
At six ,
I was a bag of tricks,
Just for kicks,
Smart at solving conflicts,
Easily able to come out of a fix,
Clever and confident, teachers'
best pick.
icantbearmyself Jun 2018
the scent of the one
we fall for

in reality

is simply
detergent
and shampoo
DW Apr 2018
I have my favorite smells
Each filled with sentiment
Or the sensation of joy
I can smell them everyday
and go on without interruption
But the smell
that always catches my attention
Is your smell
You don't know it
But your scent is always in my perception
Your cologne
The shampoo you use
Whatever lotion you use
I can smell it
and suddenly the memories come washing over
I can smell you
and only think about you
with nothing else on my mind
until the smell goes away
in some cases it can be gone within seconds or minutes
But sometimes it lingers
and sometimes I wish it never leaves
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
If God exists and he is great, fair and just, why does my nose always start to itch when I'm in the shower and my hands are full of shampoo?
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2016
At that moment fingers rushed in an ooze of excitement,
A lake confronted in foam.
The smell of you cleansing everything it touches.
Could you image that,
Placing you in a bottle dispensing you little by little.
A thick lather filling the gasps of fingers.
How could you make a simple shampoo smell that much better.
How is that possible, I mean who on earth does that.
The slogan itself would be perfect
I mean Absolute genius
It would simply read
You
Possibly a picture of a deranged bunny on the front of the label.
A fluff for hair, One eye caught in mid blink.
Chipmunk like jaws.
The essence itself would be breathtaking.
I could see it now.
Placing you on the cosmetic isle in a bunny shaped bottle.
There is only one problem however,
How could we begin to bottle up something so precious
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