#ns - Hello Poetry

Your Fragrance Tonight, is full of Passion. Let's crawl into Bed, in the same old Fashion. Shut the Door, as I off the Light. So We can start Our Romance, on this naked Night. Unwrap your Feelings, that U have for Me. Like the flowing River, My Love will never cease to Be. As your Moans and Whispers, sound their Flirtatious Note. I shall recite to U, The Love Poem I Wrote.

0

Jun 19, 2020

Jun 19, 2020 at 11:04 AM UTC

savio-fonseca

Your Fragrance Tonight

Your Fragrance Tonight, is full of Passion. Let's crawl into Bed, in the same old Fashion. Shut the Door, as I off the Light. So We can start Our Romance, on this naked Night. Unwrap your Feelings, that U have for Me. Like the flowing River, My Love will never cease to Be. As your Moans and Whispers, sound their Flirtatious Note. I shall recite to U, The Love Poem I Wrote.

16

i love Satins ***** she means a lot to a bard i hope shes a switch but life can be hard a satanist has class and has a lot a will and i love your sweet *** and i work in Satan's mill I know about archetypes there my best friends ive seen all there lights and ive lived in their dens thank god for the devil hes been a hella good friend i love you to hurt me on that you may depend a blade up my *** ill shimmy and shake and give you no sass hope you want what you take

0

May 21, 2016

May 21, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC

zebrablack

SATINS ***** explicit dark erotca

i love Satins ***** she means a lot to a bard i hope shes a switch but life can be hard a satanist has class and has a lot a will and i love your sweet *** and i work in Satan's mill I know about archetypes there my best friends ive seen all there lights and ive lived in their dens thank god for the devil hes been a hella good friend i love you to hurt me on that you may depend a blade up my *** ill shimmy and shake and give you no sass hope you want what you take

20

Cinzas permanecem. Por isso somos abençoados nas cinzas após todo o fogo se extinguir. O fogo não dura. As cinzas sim. Mesmo se são levadas pelo vento, lavadas pela água ou enterradas na terra. Até mesmo se são postas no fogo novamente. Elas sempre permanecem, não importa o quê.

0

Sep 13, 2016

Sep 13, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC

serafeim-blazej

cinzas permanecem/por isso nós somos abençoados

Cinzas permanecem. Por isso somos abençoados nas cinzas após todo o fogo se extinguir. O fogo não dura. As cinzas sim. Mesmo se são levadas pelo vento, lavadas pela água ou enterradas na terra. Até mesmo se são postas no fogo novamente. Elas sempre permanecem, não importa o quê.

1

Every song reminds me of what we were. I miss you. I need you. I've thought about it everyday "if I could just go back to my old ways, before anyone knew." I'd do it all over again because now I know what I want. I've already replayed every time it happened to see if I could get the same emotion out of it. I'm beginning to experiment again. I now have a reason for every single one. I've reached the point where I have them all in reach. I will soon allow myself to fall into it... In every way.

0

May 3, 2015

May 3, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC

emma-espinoza

Spin cycle.

Every song reminds me of what we were. I miss you. I need you. I've thought about it everyday "if I could just go back to my old ways, before anyone knew." I'd do it all over again because now I know what I want. I've already replayed every time it happened to see if I could get the same emotion out of it. I'm beginning to experiment again. I now have a reason for every single one. I've reached the point where I have them all in reach. I will soon allow myself to fall into it... In every way.

10

I. Parade Square I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground, the tar off my marred body, imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes to burn with an perverse, masochistic fire for this torture my tongue could never profess. Running or sprinting blind, and then a rumble above, force open my eyes to watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380 hang low like a ladder. II. Swimming Pool Usually we swim here, or get cooked by the sun, but there was once we pumped eighty because the FT was bored and wanted to go home, early. III. Cookhouse Pre-dawn, we sit down half-asleep, milo in hand, a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate. Every table a section-full of once-boys taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular window panes that hang from the ceiling. At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem, and I wonder why we don’t sing it anymore. IV. Range It is going on two months in this foreign land Two months of having not shot a single picture A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot Burst of colour – bang! – picture Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage Two months of wading through picturesque scenery Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees And no chance to shoot any photos But the picture of simulated ****** As I point and pull, hear the Trigger-click of my camera go bang. V. Grenade Ground When I picked up the little inconspicuous olive thing, and placed it in the pouch next to my left breast, beside my heart, I couldn’t help but ponder if that was how the Bali bombers felt like, moments before they died. VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge This is another world; a world filled with so many dark memories I cannot write about it. I would have saved you from drowning in your waterlogged grave, except I was drowning myself. On the long ride back to camp, I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking, we may sit in the same tonner, but in actuality we all find our own roads home. VII. Coy Line When I shower I close my eyes, feel the slow trickle of water from the broken showerhead, and imagine myself in a hotel villa, or one of those luxury hotsprings. When the lights go off I lie back, gaze out at the orange floodlight that shines through the panes, illuminates my teary face, darkens my world to a quiet, uneasy sleep. VIII. Ferry Terminal Every book-out I let the man scan my card, puff up my shoulders and catwalk down the dock with a sense of newfound authority. I’m a civilian now. Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry get louder and louder like a plane on the verge of taking off; like a soul on the verge of escape.

0

Sep 7, 2014

Sep 7, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC

dyanova

a tour of tekong

I. Parade Square I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground, the tar off my marred body, imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes to burn with an perverse, masochistic fire for this torture my tongue could never profess. Running or sprinting blind, and then a rumble above, force open my eyes to watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380 hang low like a ladder. II. Swimming Pool Usually we swim here, or get cooked by the sun, but there was once we pumped eighty because the FT was bored and wanted to go home, early. III. Cookhouse Pre-dawn, we sit down half-asleep, milo in hand, a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate. Every table a section-full of once-boys taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular window panes that hang from the ceiling. At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem, and I wonder why we don’t sing it anymore. IV. Range It is going on two months in this foreign land Two months of having not shot a single picture A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot Burst of colour – bang! – picture Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage Two months of wading through picturesque scenery Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees And no chance to shoot any photos But the picture of simulated ****** As I point and pull, hear the Trigger-click of my camera go bang. V. Grenade Ground When I picked up the little inconspicuous olive thing, and placed it in the pouch next to my left breast, beside my heart, I couldn’t help but ponder if that was how the Bali bombers felt like, moments before they died. VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge This is another world; a world filled with so many dark memories I cannot write about it. I would have saved you from drowning in your waterlogged grave, except I was drowning myself. On the long ride back to camp, I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking, we may sit in the same tonner, but in actuality we all find our own roads home. VII. Coy Line When I shower I close my eyes, feel the slow trickle of water from the broken showerhead, and imagine myself in a hotel villa, or one of those luxury hotsprings. When the lights go off I lie back, gaze out at the orange floodlight that shines through the panes, illuminates my teary face, darkens my world to a quiet, uneasy sleep. VIII. Ferry Terminal Every book-out I let the man scan my card, puff up my shoulders and catwalk down the dock with a sense of newfound authority. I’m a civilian now. Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry get louder and louder like a plane on the verge of taking off; like a soul on the verge of escape.

99