Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Your *** and thighs
My reason why
I am so hypnotized
Your *** and thighs
On top of me
My mouth in ecstacy

Your *** and thighs
I fantasize
My Head between your thighs
Your *** and thighs
I dream of you
They're my ******* come true

Your *** and thighs
Under night sky
Are music to my eyes
Your *** and thighs
My midnight treat
They are so very sweet

Your *** and thigh
Do satisfy
My hungry tongue and eyes
Your *** and thighs
My bedtime guest
They are the very best
Just an ****** fantasy that was floating in my head
Freshly trimmed so nice and wet
Image i cannot forget
Silky smooth so soft and sweet
Wish it my delicious treat
May i please gaze upon it?
To my eyes it's hypnotic
I would love it oh so much
If my fingers you let touch
Can I have a little smell?
You've got me under a spell
Love to have a little taste
Promise I would not make haste
Take my time enjoying you
You are a ******* come true
An image was put in my head and i couldn't get it out to i wrote this
Sanny Nov 13
Repaint my colours, I beg you.

I was like a rainbow of fresh paint.

Still wet from the brush.

Dancing on rainbow colours.

It's so much darker now.

The paint has dried.
Becca Nov 7
her bare toes touch the
wet grass,
the bottoms of her feet
now covered in mud
her feet are the garden
growing fresh movements
her mind is the water
nourishing the herbs
MrsFootePoems Oct 24
Everything is wet, like my temples
Reaching out for a hand to hold but
Even if I could find one I would
Slip out of grasp and
Sever that connection because
Everything is black and I'm
Depression *****
ottaross Oct 16
Our headlights out there
In this wet October night
Sink into the cold asphalt
Glowing lumps of coal
Lobbed into a black ocean.
Driving home in a dark evening rain, leaves litter the street, and headlamps are powerless against the depth of darkness
Annie Oct 6
I want to be this
wet white dress
hanging alone on the line,
on such a gentle
Sunday morning.

Why do I want to be this dress
so badly?
Every time I glance it’s way
I’m surprised with the jealousy I feel.
I must be jealous of its peace,
I suppose.

It has no need to do anything
all day long,
except hang there
and sweetly dry
in its own time.
Gary Brocks Aug 29
I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a back and glistening wave.

I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.

I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.

I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.

I hear the carve of oars,
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as both oar lock’s turn,
you slip the shore,
I hear the carve of oars

Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks

They didn't get along
Özcan Sh Aug 28
She is crying
Under the rain
I never let her get wet
I'm here to hold
The umbrella up
For her.
Next page