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Simon Jul 2020
Having luck where I can achieve anything... Is like a young kid opening a bottle of their favorite bottled soda the day it first came out! Awaiting it's arrival like the coating of a nice breeze dancing throughout the company of skin coated with sweat. As the hairs with little droplets of already coated sweat came (as if a light drizzle fell over the field of endless rows of arm hair) not so long ago. Standing perfectly ***** as the sun blazes downward like a coating of sticky smog! Making the tips of the already (***** endless rows of arm hair) shine brightly with droplets bending light between it's different surfaces. Almost as if when looking through the pure liquid droplets, you see the inside of a crystal instead. A crystal fine layer with the inside of many warped and distorted angles. All the very uncomfortable effects may seem mildly dreary...at first. Except for the awaiting call of the miracle that is the sizzling bubbles popping within a still closed bottle cap of your favorite bottled soda! And that's where ALL the effects that may seem mildly dreary...at first, is usually because of the miracle that is on an "occasional" slight delay!
Sincerely... The "luck" is in the young kids favorite bottled soda!
Luck isn't just impatient...when it's truly hungry full of vigor! Especially when it wants to thrive in a motion full of severity!
Poetoftheway Jul 2020
brown skin farmer girl (this changeling poem)

~

we are I’ve decided

alike and unlike.

I know, an epiphany.

we are both brown skinned,

the sun has wrested my skin

buried it in dark loamy,

soiled brown side by side,

now alike.


your hair is long(er)

now, mine too.

a cascading mountain ranging,

edging south from your Columbia,

to my  Columbia

over my ears, down my neck,

which like yours, dreams knightly

of being loved by endless kisses,

a prince(ss) charmant

~

we could not be

more different,

than how god us designed.

but here’s the rub,

people change,

they dream of becoming,

reinventing the original design,

and this explains

not the why, but the how,

how this poet came to write

this changeling poem
.

~

and you think we could not be more different and
more alike, and you would be rightly correct.
J J Jul 2020
The tremble of her skin...
Like rain tapping off of
    a jigsaw puzzle formed in glass.
Among my last poems,I'll try to make my final count. Hope u are all well.
Emily Donoher Jul 2020
tired of hearing talk of
butterflies       are tired
of their wings being the
object of one’s affection
and we are one          to
talk          about the skin
that dress souls like gar-
ments that we peel off
at the end of a long day
we are raw and naked
and who to see us if not
just curtains &  hollow
bathtubs               filled
with aching spines that
carry heavy souls        and
what’s the point if nobody
asks to look inside anyway?          
tired of talk of skin and form
there is so much more to see    

just ask about
metamorphosis
Simon Jul 2020
There is no essential self that can't not weep their desires outward for their own delicate surface of skin not to notice. Since skin is the surface area of ALL sensory receptors to firstly take in the rush of potential environmental information. However, the most pleading debate here...is that tears are still flowing despite me not feeling the need to weep in the first place. That's because whatever rush of environmental information came splashing your very skin and the receptors that (majority wise) make sure to immediately take in (as if by automatic purposes). They entirely relay that very information by the balance of how your emotions simply took it. Which by judging simply by how I'm essentially tearing up, myself just went through an even bigger withdrawal, than I previously thought!
When you essentially tear up, you don't see a lot of data that seems to become sparked from deep inside yourself. That's because you aren't as self-aware as you give yourself credit for...at first!
PS... If you think otherwise...then why are you essentially still tearing up...?
Madison Greene Jul 2020
Someday, when I’m older, my daydreams won’t be daydreams anymore.
The morning sun will dance across my bare skin in my third floor apartment.
Photos in film line my bedside table and life’s so sweet I hardly reach for my phone.
We dance on wooden floors to Van Morrison’s ‘tupelo honey’ and the sugar in my coffee falls short in comparison to the love we make.
Amanda Hawk Jul 2020
Fingertips linger upon skin
I trace my answers
As if my hands are mouths
Tongues lapping at the salt
The sunrise rests upon you
Layers of pink, orange and yellow
Glisten upon your face
And my gaze
Falls into your eyes
Your name
The horizon upon my tongue
And our love, I devour
Slowly eating with every touch
aspen wilde Jul 2020
and i can't feel like myself,
i'm locked inside the world of,
somebody else.
where the walls feel like a box,
and this skin feels like a toxin
to me.

i wanna be free
song lyrics, but sounded poetic enough to post :)
Savio Fonseca Jul 2020
As Our Lips got Locked,
Our Hands went for Action.
Searching for points,
to meet Our Satisfaction.
Passion was Creeping,
beneath our Skin.
Two Hearts kept Beating,
deep Within.
As We went about,
exploring Our Spaces.
Happiness got written,
on both Our Faces.
I kept sipping on U....as if,
U were a Glass of Wine.
We finished Our Mission,
at Quarter past Nine.
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