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faa Jun 2018
Gusts of your breath like a breeze
Fanned against my lips with each exhale
Your soft lips, grazing the chapped surface
Shivers danced down my spine
In a waltz so furious, my body in frenzy
Revelling to the beats of our hearts
Excitement almost dizzying
Feeling your gentle fingertips graze my cheeks
As you cupped my face, softly
Your eyelashes fluttered
Against my flushed cheeks
As a butterfly would against flowers
The creases of your Cupid’s bow
Finally pressed against my own
Our noses touching, sliding against each other
Lips now melding like seeping honey
Through a kiss so vivid
A kiss that only happened in my daydreams
for all of you who longs for a kiss in your fantasies
adept Apr 2018
My vision has been contorted.
All colors no longer blend
but rather stand out and by
themselves. All lives and
positions seem different from
the angles they are presented in .
Mary-Eliz Apr 2018
if not to
make you pause
to catch your breath
or sigh

if not to
bring deep pleasure
a vivid scene
of sea or sky

if not to
open doors
where
your heart has never gone

if not to
to bring the colors
that brighten every dawn

if not to
flirt with music
on the dancing floor

if not all
this and more
then
what's a "meta-phor"?
Playing with words again.
Tom Alan Quest Mar 2018
I walk my life, a subway station
Where dirt consorts
The air around.
It pounds my nape,
It flames my mind
With sights and fates
And sounds.

Above, a tram goes up the alley
Tinged with canary hue.
Below, my wit:
What void, what valley:
It sank, in Tagus mused.

I take a seat, doors screech behind.
O, what wondrous whiffs?
Of metal beams
Attriting loudly
Against metal wheels?

To a halt it cuts my chain of thought,
Rivals my dream, they brawl.
'Tis from the gallery
Of broken hope
The beggar man crawls.

Intemperate horns his entry announce,
Dysphoric scenes aground.
He comes detuned
Near clears his throat,
Lethargic voice resounds:

I beat my cane
In wrongful rhythm,
'Cause wrongful
Was my life.
My voice hurts from
All this singing:
'Twas morphed into
A sigh.
I longed, I longed
For all my sinning
Was ought to be repaid.
Deserved so much,
God took my
Will, my sight,
My love, my
Name.

So tell me, vagrant,
What did He take?
-Said I-
Who has loved you?
What is your will,
What name did you go by?

I used to be a man of soul
Whose heart beat strong and dign,
I used to write
And then I died
On the 10th before July.

He took my coins for all my service
At wars:
At land
At sea
-The waves still have her,
Laying there still,
Waiting away from me!-
Said he-
I will my love,
My fire, passion
-My young Natercia!-
Most darling of all nymphaea!

So God is just after all,
Replacing sin with grief.
No need for me
To pay the man:
God has done the deed.

The deadbeat coins of his cup
Turmoil ever so slightly.
I leave my dream,
Doors shrill again:
'Tis time to end my journey.
An ode to Portugal's best.
An ode to Europe's brightest and warmest city.
A view on psychological historism with sarcasm
Sunflowers bloom
They shine
Like faces
After a honeymoon!
O the shine
Moon gets
From his Sun
So does it
Blooms when the
Sun rises
Faces away when it sets
Doesn't ask for anything
From the Sun
Except for sunshine
Is it that
The sunflower calls
O dear Sun
Rise,awake
I need to rise
And when the Sun sets,
She says
O bye,dear
I need to bear
Another night
Of facing away
O the moonlight
Does not suit me
He is like me
He gets his glow
From you
You are,so
His cause as you're mine
So why should I leave you
And set a saga with him
He waxes and wanes
And is very'light'
Unlike you
Vigorous and radiant
Why shouldn't I be you?
What would the Sun reply
Does he shy
Does he act Herculistic
What do you say
Do you find someone
In this scene?
Scientifically Sun is the source of all energy
Even metaphorically?
Poem is a canvas of imagination.
Paint your colors!!
renniedreams Jan 2018
Cold frozen road
Poor sorry lad

Brutal roaring storm
Corpses madly bloom

Already...


The crippling cold catches up


Through minds zip chaos
It corrodes conquers nights

Too late...


The howling harvester hacks heads


All broken...

Cold worn hearts
Seek godly protection
A mnemonic for chemistry students~  Feel free to use it and share it with others!
Hannah Zedaker Jan 2018
Infatuation is transparent red.
It sounds like the quickened pace of a fox in the forest
It tastes like metallic blood pumping in the back of your throat
It smells like three week old lilacs
Infatuation feels like burrs stuck in the sleeves of your tattered wool sweater.
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