#lasagna - Hello Poetry

The flavor of your home Baked into it, I'm Fortunate enough to taste The four walls Fortunate enough to house you

0

May 18, 2023

May 18, 2023 at 12:40 AM UTC

Ambrosetheconqueror

Lasagna

The flavor of your home Baked into it, I'm Fortunate enough to taste The four walls Fortunate enough to house you

5

my lips still desire the taste, i'm running in my nightmares with no haste you were my rose, you bloomed and decayed when you struck a pose, can't imagine not being with you but yet you were like a dream that never stayed, why can't you just stay.

0

Apr 17, 2019

Apr 17, 2019 at 9:07 PM UTC

tylerwitgazpacho

nightmares

my lips still desire the taste, i'm running in my nightmares with no haste you were my rose, you bloomed and decayed when you struck a pose, can't imagine not being with you but yet you were like a dream that never stayed, why can't you just stay.

7

You wish for me to put in words What I have to say Like the answers that I've given On their own Could never relay They come and go Touch on fate Dissipate and replicate The disingenuous nature That you frequently necessitate Extend your olive branch Then act like you feed me When the branches are famished Needy, condescending and deceiving Conceiving that I'm the villain When I don't respond to how you react Like you could perpetuate in me The supposition for your tact The fact that you lack any original clarity Is the reason I'd never reach to you Like I was Seraphim The simple reason That I'm writing all of this Is simply just to prove to you That I don't have to convince I don't have to persist Rehash, then reminisce Like treading through faded memories with you Will satiate my daily fix I resist Because I know exactly where I'm headed And you insist because that truth Is what keeps us separate Every second You playcate on a pretense When your intentions are crystal clear And I can't provide that service Or serve that purpose While I'm standing here To be perfectly honest I never promised you anything All I did was sigh and reply To how your heart would so readily sing Then you project your insecurities Directly to my face As if I was the one who gave them rise Within the first place Protecting your manipulations While contemplating your motives Are exactly the reasons we're done Before we even started I'm sick of being a punching bag For someone acting devoted And now it's been denoted I've written you off, this story is done This time you're in the subject line Because you are truly NOT the one

0

Apr 9, 2019

Apr 9, 2019 at 12:45 AM UTC

christopher-polizzi

This Time

You wish for me to put in words What I have to say Like the answers that I've given On their own Could never relay They come and go Touch on fate Dissipate and replicate The disingenuous nature That you frequently necessitate Extend your olive branch Then act like you feed me When the branches are famished Needy, condescending and deceiving Conceiving that I'm the villain When I don't respond to how you react Like you could perpetuate in me The supposition for your tact The fact that you lack any original clarity Is the reason I'd never reach to you Like I was Seraphim The simple reason That I'm writing all of this Is simply just to prove to you That I don't have to convince I don't have to persist Rehash, then reminisce Like treading through faded memories with you Will satiate my daily fix I resist Because I know exactly where I'm headed And you insist because that truth Is what keeps us separate Every second You playcate on a pretense When your intentions are crystal clear And I can't provide that service Or serve that purpose While I'm standing here To be perfectly honest I never promised you anything All I did was sigh and reply To how your heart would so readily sing Then you project your insecurities Directly to my face As if I was the one who gave them rise Within the first place Protecting your manipulations While contemplating your motives Are exactly the reasons we're done Before we even started I'm sick of being a punching bag For someone acting devoted And now it's been denoted I've written you off, this story is done This time you're in the subject line Because you are truly NOT the one

55

Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved. Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning. She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do. Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna. I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her. Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game. Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops. Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.

0

Oct 19, 2014

Oct 19, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC

grace-7

Lasagna

Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved. Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning. She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do. Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna. I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her. Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game. Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops. Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.

8

Modern man stood-- Looking towards the horizon, seeing the past. The red blood of a thousand dying sunsets colored his face in ghosts. Unmindful of the Tears flowing freely man lifts its hand to reach out-- Native spirits of a desolate world cast their gazes away and toward the ground.

0

Jun 2, 2014

Jun 2, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC

pete-badertscher

Freeman

Modern man stood-- Looking towards the horizon, seeing the past. The red blood of a thousand dying sunsets colored his face in ghosts. Unmindful of the Tears flowing freely man lifts its hand to reach out-- Native spirits of a desolate world cast their gazes away and toward the ground.

8