Wash it with love
Rinch it with love
Chop it with love
Heat it with love
Stir it with love
Serve it with love
It's your turn
Waiting fellow to
Smell it with love
Taste it with love
Praise it with love
Theme: Culinary Art
Don't let me soak in thy dream
Don't even send me letters nor thy purple screams
Thou Art the wind that blows
Through the forests of lost souls of some broken holes
Smell of sadness on thy lips' pinky shades
Shall I seek it? Or just leave it so it fades
Thy majestic horrible mind, made a trick of glorified love song
I loved that song, with every and each cell of my heart and mind
Thou possessive sacred *****
****** the blood of my vessels
Into your glass of thy muscles
To impower the brutal heart of thine
When I die
I will be fine
I am intoxicated by you.
The smell of your clothing,
The taste of your lips,
The feel of your hair,
The structure of your face,
Everything about you
Overwhelms my senses
And makes me
Pull you in tighter
And bring you in close.
I cannot stop
Wrapping myself in
You intoxicate me.
She liked how the carpet felt,
Scratchy against her cheek,
And how its texture grounded her to reality
When her thoughts were sweeping her away.
She sought after the smell of salt water and sand,
One deep breath in through the nose,
And her anxiety would slowly subside
As she listened to wave after wave crash against the shore.
She lost herself in soundtracks and sonatas,
The mournful requiems,
And the notes guided her along
To understanding the emotions she couldn’t put into words.
She collected novel after novel,
A colorful bouquet of covers and the crisp black of the text,
And she could never part with them
Because they painted pictures better than her eyes did.
She coveted the taste of hot coffee,
Sipped slowly and purposefully,
And how it forced her to take time for herself
Despite her propensity to skip the present in favor of the future.
A dark room filled up
The shadows stretching
Like a full cup
In the darkest etching
The aroma of ink
The crumble of paper
The eyes that sink
The dusty vapor
The click of a pen
The bright desktop light
The typing again
The inscribing of graphite
Eh... I think I'm just a tad bit too obsessive with the small senses in life. By the way, if you're wondering my strongest sense is my smell. Everything, and I mean, everything has a specific aroma in my mind
Ozone like incense.
A brief flash against the dark.
Lightning guides our way.
Eau de parfum
Top notes include
Noose exchanged for
Dances to favorite songs
Middle Notes Include
Questioning your judgement
Locating peace of mind through
Controlling the way you dress
Block them next
Not your friend.
Base is comprised of
Walls closing in
Destruction of property
Verbal and mental anguish
This scent lasts 6 months to a lifetime
Your chin rested on my head
I could tell you closed your eyes
Maybe took in the scent of my shampoo
There are days I can't stop thinking about you
Have you ever bought a perfume labeled
“Monday in the Fields” ?
It has a faint fragrance where
milkweeds and lilies linger in the air,
as if a gust of wind from the clouds
drifted it towards you.
Slowly but surely the aroma gets stronger,
as if the milkweeds and lilies are gathering
to form a bouquet made especially for you.
You reach out your hand to accept them
but an unexpected musk flows past you.
Suddenly a smell as salty and natural
as the deepest parts of the ocean appears.
An ocean filled with oxidized metal
and fields of brackish seaweed.
It is a distinct and intoxicating smell,
a smell that can only be found in one place.
That place is from the beads of sweat
that drip off the back and forehead of the laborer.
The very laborer who picked the milkweeds and lilies.
The very laborer who works under a scorching sun.
The very laborer who skips meals to work overtime.
The very laborer who helped arrange this scent.
Not every scent is placed in a perfume bottle.
Well...at least not the natural ones.
The prompt for this poem was “Fragrance”. I decided to show how not everything in the world is natural, and almost everything we see is artificial or altered in order to make the world seem as though it is flawless
Home smells like ****
And lavender and jasmine smoke
Heady and warm and welcoming
Home tastes like coffee and ***** seltzer
Tempered by cool water from the tap
The broke *****'s daily festivities
Home sounds like rock music and obscure indie songs
And old jazz on college radio from two campuses
A strong beat to dance to and lyrical sounds to compell your soul
Home feels like the fabric of my Goodwill bedsheets
The ease of my beanbag chair, another luxury I spent for
Soft and welcoming away from the world that shuns my kind
Home looks like the ripped out communist punk pamphlets
The pride flags that grace my walls in beauty
Reminding me of my own strength, keeping me safe
Home is what I have made it
Through the mad run in the dark and my own heartbreak
To a place where I am free
Home is my chosen family
The ones that treasure me for who I am
Without clause or abuse
Home is the arms of my lover
Watching the same show we already know
Even mundanity is treasure with them
Home is what I have fought for
A place where I can be myself in peace and safety
A place where I am found