Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
6.9k · Dec 2016
THE FOG
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
Moisture permeates the air, a wet haze.
Stillness with anticipation, or tension.
Fresh air containing an aroma.
Natural and earthly,
Like giving into original temptation.

Through the fog she awaits my consumption.
Her taste lovely, like if love had a flavor.
An oozing box of sweet glaze, stands within a wet haze.
3.6k · Dec 2016
CHERRY LIP BALM
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
Every ounce of pressure against my veins,
like the flood of heavy summer rains.
Trying to escape the coating of my flesh,
internal tensions I could not oppress.
I hear crickets, smell the morning dew.
All I can ever concentrate on is you.
Made to feel nervous but oh so calm,
sometimes even sweet like cherry lip balm.
A moment of combustion then release,
your tongue wanders onto my body, into a crease.
I'll never care if I get rich,
so ever long as you ease my twitch.
Stale smoke and the scent of butane,
breath seeps into me like a bloodstain.
You, a child at heart
and I, a freak into abstract art, like Ad Reinhardt.
What a fine creation, our own constellation,
an innovation, better than intoxication.
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
I'd rather be a raisin than a grape
With no juice or sweetness
Desolate of hydration
Dried via sun
Wrinkled and battered
Has endured strife
Became bitter over time

But I'd rather be wine than a raisin
Potent and strong
Powerful in simplistic form
Living only to intoxicate those who consume me

For so naturally time absorbs life
Making one **** with age
Dry from existence
Then robust through struggle

I'd rather be a raisin than a grape, but I'd rather be wine than a raisin.
2.1k · Dec 2016
FERMENTATION MANIPULATION
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.

I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.

After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."

Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.

After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.

The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
1.8k · Dec 2016
PERISH
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
All of life is which to live
When you reach the summit
God eventually gives
Nirvana heaven peace
Of all the variations I wish for none
Just an eternity with you
Only one
1.5k · Oct 2017
MY STOLEN BELOVED
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
Blood stains covered my art supplies
You didn’t believe in that artistic risk though
It wasn’t too long before my sharpener laid in in your trash can

You picked my pills and I off the tiled floor
I thought i’d be the one who’d be flushed
But it was the pills that drained down the toilet

You always grabbed my hands as they craved color
That familiar purple stain my skin wore too well
You bought me a fidget cube to fiddle with my tensions

You took everything I loved from me
Every form of devilish comfort
Alot more than I could ever do for myself
1.3k · Dec 2016
SOFT SPOT
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
I have got a soft spot for you.
It is icky and full of goo.
I imagine it is a certain type of blue.
Maybe of a lighter hue.
My insides have caught the flu.
And my heart took up a coup.
You became my guru.
Allowing sentiment to shine through.
My cynicism was able to subdue.
Something like magic, almost voodoo.
I hope I'm not too taboo.
Darling, I just love you.
1.2k · Mar 2019
EROTICA MAGNIFICA
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
My fingers smell of you
Inner thigh bruises, black and blue

It’ll be innocent, what I’ll do
Work you into a sweat, morning dew

Feeling like goddesses, us two
Sticking to one another, organic glue

Excitingly painful but only for a few
My erotica magnifica, you haven’t a clue
1.1k · Dec 2016
MENACE
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
The thought of you
An uncertain utopia
Shaky and tense
To me makes little sense

The way you look at me
I come undone upon the seems
Holding and gripping
To keep my sanity is crippling

You say you can love me from a distance
But take this for instance
If I said good riddance
Would you see me as the menace?
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
Black moss and flower pots.
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Lonely and moated,
Rusted nails broken.

Dew with tears,
An hour before sunlight.
Cold winds wake,
A greyish mourn.
Clustered marish-mosses,
Silver green bark.

In a dreamy home.
Among wainscot,
Door hinges creak.
Like a mouse,
She shrieked-
She cometh not, she cometh not.
923 · Dec 2016
GEOGRPHICAL CONTRADICTIONS
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
So warm with subtle life.
Rolling desert hills and splotches of green.
I loved your plains.
Oh, the tanned beauty.

But I, from the north east,
could never predict the drought.
For seasons don't change in the desert,
and rain rarely falls upon the plains.

I was going through the terms.
All the snow, and changing of leaves.
You watched with great admiration.
And your dry surface cracked.
And I knew you could never freeze.
830 · Mar 2019
Belfast, ME
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
You left
A footprint
On the wood panel
In front of me

Your wet soles
From dewed grass
And drunk squats

Your mark
Lays upon me
I know you’re near
But not here
781 · Oct 2017
GLAZED PORCELAIN
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
I  grabbed the teal towel
Your naked body had been wrapped in last
Used your slimming bar of soap
Conditioned my armpit hair like you do

I even swirled shampoo in the palm of my hand
Because today is my first shower without you

My back will not get washed
Your wash cloths will stay folded
Still on top of the glazed porcelain
And only one lofa will get sudsy and wet

I think i'd rather ferment in my own sweat
745 · Jan 2017
I DIG YOU
The Napkin Poet Jan 2017
I still look for her in you.
You told me you could dig blue,
I said, "I dig you."
We shouted "Boo!" and "Happy Holidays" too.

But somehow I felt she was still in my queue.
What a picture for myself I drew,
Always focusing on the morning dew.
Labeling my fantasies as true,

Still figuring out how to shake her glue.
You were new, so I thought I’d be able to see you through.
711 · Mar 2019
PRODUCE JUNCTION
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
Squeeze gently like lemons and fruits
Sweet nectar juices produced

**** tongue close to core
Butterscotch like tapped sycamore

Perspiration seeps from peel
Porous citrus aromates near

Grown in sun among the wildflowers
Oh how I love her, even when she sours
570 · Mar 2019
APT BLUS
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
Find me
Cold in a corner
Scribbling over my tears
Exposed toes and clammy hands
Scribbling my inner demands

Find me
Lost in my own home
Head towards the ground
Making a cowering sound

Find me
Holding my head between my palms
Two elbows on the countertop
497 · Oct 2017
spit
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
Sike me out.
Spit on my toes.
Look for others.

No shame.
Hurricanes are natural.
No apologies in nature.

Right over my head.
Flung into my dreams.
But not all dreams are tangible.

Like you.

Sike me out.
Spit on me.
Make me feel you.
464 · Mar 2019
SAINT VALENTINE
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
A man comes out of the shadows,
as so it goes.

Held his fist to the doe,
Her money, you know.

“I’ve only but a rose,
one of friendship despite my woes.”

And with that rose she choked.
Like Porphyria’s lover,
coaxed.

Soft mane of death,
like a thorn to the chest.
Only the rose of amity saw the rest.
295 · Oct 2017
02/29/16 7:51 AM
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
I hope you know
I've given myself more to you
Than I

You were reciprocating
My deepest of ghosts
Loving and creating
Whatta hoax

What could I do
To love myself as much as you
244 · Oct 2017
ALMOST
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
Almsot everywhere
All walls
All conversations
To be appericated
Not understood
Loved for who they saw
Who they made me to be
How I fit into perspective
No I, I am not
Almost nowhere

— The End —