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Is this where it ends?
The pouring of words,
The same as the rain against the window.
Moisture to the grass.
Safely unlatching the gate,
The horses huff in the darkness.
The sky so bare,
But it reminds me of someone else;
Beneath his chin, beneath our dreams.
Is this where we have come?
To my insincerities,
To my lies, disguised as truths.
Half-truths, we will say.
Your arms an honour:
Your doors are opening,
Finally,
But I am locked behind my own.
Is this where the road ends?
Cooped up for too long,
The light has escaped our space;
Casting shade in your eyes
And doubt on me.
With the road that lay ahead, breaking slowly,
Crumbling in slow motion:
So loudly, so harshly.
Is this where we end?
Individual thoughts on the unknown:
Opinions and perspective
The world went upside down when you spoke,
Tossing me off my feet,
The red of my hair the last thing I recall.
An inner voice spoke then:
The clucks and the chatters faded.
Until it all became void.
But this is not the first time,
This will not be the last.
Although, it is the end:
To the vanilla latte air,
To the inconvenience.
The pins on the map are all mine now,
The administration is yours.
I have no more debt,
And the circles never combined anyway.
The sun sets while we look away,
As always,
And then we drift off:
Into the abyss, into our own worlds,
Into individuality.
Until we find our voices,
And start again.
14-5-2020

© All Rights Reserved Joanne Heraghty
Ariana Solo Nov 2020
A scopiferous brush defining an aquarelle vanilla sky

Coating the canvas in lilac candy - floss clouds floating by

Painting the heavens with stardust and every pigment of the universe

Depicting celestial fluffery with deeper words than any poetic verse

🌌 🌌 🌌 🌌 🌌
💜💙💜💙💜💙
Scopiferous - Brushy; having a tuft or tufts of hair
💙💜💙💜💙💜
Aquarelle - technique of painting with thin, transparent watercolours

💜💙💜💙💜💙
Kamilla Jun 2020
Be,
As a love
Whom together,
Discovers
The art of sin

Ask,
Not of the wrongs
Nor rights
But,
If the sweet cherry
Seeps or flows

Approach,
A figure, yet
Merely a reflection
In fruits,
Not leaves

Gaze,
Vanilla cream
Opposing,
One robust
In darkness
And desire

Fuse,
The sensation
Of honey dancing
Upon buds,
Of taste

Addiction,
The willingness
To enable,
The expedition
And art of sin
Alison May 2020
✧She smelled of flowers and vanilla✧
✧Late at night you could hear her;✧
✧She'd sing to herself quietly✧
✧Just like her daddy always did,✧
✧If you'd look close enough✧
✧You'd see the tears in her eyes✧
✧And the storm in her heart.✧
✧She'll never admit it,✧
✧But she does deeply miss him.✧
I keep filling my real life pages with poems,but i don't post any of them because i have this feeling that they're not good enough..
Left Foot Poet Jun 2015
~~~

Vanilla Extract

under extreme duress,
word-boarding extreme,
she issues up reluctantly a true confess

her secret ingredient
in everything is
vanilla extract

where do you source this
in quantities so ample,
keep it well hid,
for all I see
after cupboard investigatory
solitary tiny brown bottle
shelved alone, forlornly?


wearing a vanilla smile,
that persists for quite the while,
she crinkly eyed laughs

“I extract vanilla
nearly everyday,
for when I awake to a
fresh poem from a poet
who loves me,
I draw all the vanilla out,
then feed it back to him
in the foods I supply,
so his poetry is for ever
sustainable”
Apple juice Feb 2020
𝖯lain, generic, and, sweet.
𝖲omething that just can’t be beat.
𝖳he irony of so many.
𝖵anilla is not of any.
Godly silk of milky white and an Understatement of unrequited
Separation.
𝖲he lies supine waiting for vanilla to pick a side.
𝖩ust above the rim of the cup,
vanilla built all the way to the top, with No mix-ins, an overscoop just for you, and a smile on the side too.
𝖲even o’three is what is going to be.
𝖲even o’three and a firm grip on me.
𝖸es the irony of choosing originality when its the exact opposite of what you preach
𝖤specially in between the sheets.
𝖨ndeed nothing to write home about
just a medium cup of soupy iced cream.
𝖠 flavor so **** sweet that’s sadly not for me.
𝖲weet memories in time.
𝖨’ll continue on
with vanilla on my mind.
Medium vanilla with no toppings.
How ordinary yet you aren’t like of any.
vanilla is you but vanilla isn’t what you are. Vanilla isn’t how you play vanilla is what you taste.
LC Nov 2019
my love carries
the scent of vanilla perfume.
it drifts through me,
then dances with the wind
until it finally reaches him,
the man a thousand miles away,
and brings us closer together.
Meredith Leigh Jun 2019
birthday cake ice cream
but you lost all your sprinkles
now just vanilla.
NoahArkenswagg Sep 2018
Eve
Bone of my bone, the missing ivory in my rib cage...we could be peas in the same pod if you weren't of a different tree altogether. Flesh of my flesh, together we are better than vanilla with chocolate chips. Apple of my eye? Let's not see what evil we could do together. Noah_arkenswagg
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