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"accentuating" poems
***Crossing the room in slow motion She watches his muscles move in the moonlight Oh how they glisten in anticipation Sit my pet, in a whisper At her feet he waits with bated breath So pleased at his obedience Proceed Such a simple command He inches closer His eagerness evident in his silence In his omission of a proper response An outfaced palm and he stops short Sitting back on his feet, hands in lap, eyes to the floor I'm sorry Ma'am, he says That is evident by his failure to respond He knows what is coming Grabbing the back of his hair she forces his eyes to hers Position, she says disgustedly She leans back in the armchair as he pulls her hips to the edge He lifts one leg and gently places it over the arm Then he positions the other in the same manner Sitting back on his feet, facing the floor His arousal is evident, as is his moist anticipation Respire. The word is grunted through gritted teeth He leans into heaven Hovering an inch away Slow deep breaths He breathes in her essence wanting nothing more Than to bridge the gap with his tongue White satin and peekaboo lace She runs down the rules of his punishment Will you touch the Goddess No Ma'am Will you drool on the Goddess No Ma'am Will you move without permission No Ma'am How long will you hold your position As long as my Goddess sees fit...Ma'am Good boy His breath is slow, deliberate, and heavy The heat of it permeates the thin fabric She runs her hand over the object of desire Accentuating the outlines of what lies beneath An accidental whimper Silence! A gruff command Followed implicitly In a slow and graceful motion A hand slips under the fabric Opening her flower releasing a hint of nectar The scent grows exponentially upon the unfurling of petals A glistening finger touches him just above his lip Is that what you want? It's a rhetorical question Yes please What will you do to get it Such a simple question with but one answer Anything you please, Goddess Stick out your tongue He does so in silence, careful that he does not touch her She uses his wet flesh to wipe her finger clean Closer she whispers Now, within a half inch he breathes her in deeply Mesmerized by the dewy goodness held behind the smooth satin Watching desire grow in painfully slow motion He blows out on the growing dampness As he waits for her next command***
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Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Rules of Engagement
***Crossing the room in slow motion She watches his muscles move in the moonlight Oh how they glisten in anticipation Sit my pet, in a whisper At her feet he waits with bated breath So pleased at his obedience Proceed Such a simple command He inches closer His eagerness evident in his silence In his omission of a proper response An outfaced palm and he stops short Sitting back on his feet, hands in lap, eyes to the floor I'm sorry Ma'am, he says That is evident by his failure to respond He knows what is coming Grabbing the back of his hair she forces his eyes to hers Position, she says disgustedly She leans back in the armchair as he pulls her hips to the edge He lifts one leg and gently places it over the arm Then he positions the other in the same manner Sitting back on his feet, facing the floor His arousal is evident, as is his moist anticipation Respire. The word is grunted through gritted teeth He leans into heaven Hovering an inch away Slow deep breaths He breathes in her essence wanting nothing more Than to bridge the gap with his tongue White satin and peekaboo lace She runs down the rules of his punishment Will you touch the Goddess No Ma'am Will you drool on the Goddess No Ma'am Will you move without permission No Ma'am How long will you hold your position As long as my Goddess sees fit...Ma'am Good boy His breath is slow, deliberate, and heavy The heat of it permeates the thin fabric She runs her hand over the object of desire Accentuating the outlines of what lies beneath An accidental whimper Silence! A gruff command Followed implicitly In a slow and graceful motion A hand slips under the fabric Opening her flower releasing a hint of nectar The scent grows exponentially upon the unfurling of petals A glistening finger touches him just above his lip Is that what you want? It's a rhetorical question Yes please What will you do to get it Such a simple question with but one answer Anything you please, Goddess Stick out your tongue He does so in silence, careful that he does not touch her She uses his wet flesh to wipe her finger clean Closer she whispers Now, within a half inch he breathes her in deeply Mesmerized by the dewy goodness held behind the smooth satin Watching desire grow in painfully slow motion He blows out on the growing dampness As he waits for her next command***
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Brown sugar sapotas Blending with custard alfonso mangos And bold sweet lime juice Georgette saris Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces Mixed with peals and rubies Gently sloping palm trees Swaying in balmy sultry air And hazy golden sunsets Frenetic yellow autos Competing with dusty zipping mopeds Mixed with ambulating pedestrians Aromas of cumin Blending with the sewage Other times with incense Glows of brass oil lamps Singing in hums of prayer Added with turmeric's incantations Brightly-patterned salwars Accentuating gemstone bindis Comfy fitted leggings Savory masala dosas Coupling coconut chutney Meter-high filter coffee
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Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Treasures of Chennai, India
his writing caught everyone’s attention like an artist i once saw on the street in québec he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal i asked to take his picture he obliged this writer is also canadian and paints masterpieces with words his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged for starker strokes of reality tinged with weathered wisdom creating shadows in his work accentuating the light there’s not a write of his that does not stir emotions his words linger rolling around in your head bumping into each other morphing into new connotations his easel alive you wonder if he did that on purpose? could anyone have that kind of talent? yes…..his brush continues flowing even after the paint is dry suddenly at midnight i awaken and hear another morsel a word, a phrase, a color that only made itself known in the dark of night understanding he's a favorite i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh when he contracted cancer would he now leave his canvas dry? no, this courageous artist bravely took his palette and continued painting his words that us awaken now e’vn more radiant with tragedy astride and ‘tho he talks of dying i pray that he will stay but should his spirit fly we have seen a master show us how to walk into the light ©2016janetaylor
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
R.I.P Chris Vaillancourt (repost of walking into the light)
The sensations take over for a time Not quite enjoyment but a need Flesh calling out for release I give in eventually Begging for this one to be different Hoping that maybe I can just pretend for a while Its always in the back of my mind Exhausted I finally achieve ****** duly owed to instinct Before the end is reached Shame washes over me Disappointment seeps through my entire being I will never have the parts I desire Acutely aware of the flesh pushing down on my chest Accentuating every movement The tiny nub between my fingers Will never be big enough for my desire The twitching hole that will never be closed That will never supply pleasure The tears begin to track down the sides of my face Filled with anger, shame, disappointment and disgust Brokenness from being entirely the wrong thing How can I ask anyone to accept my body When I can't even accept it myself?
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Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Dysphoria pt.2
Many a notion I'd lay in indelible ink. How the morning sun would harvest the contours of your face. Accentuating... Elevating... Revealing... Your majestic beauty. Reminiscent of a different time and place. Many a thought I'd pen in indelible ink. When your breath meets with mine, they'd hold their own conversation. Deeply entranced, In an everlasting dance that would last forever. Exchanging gaits of grandeur, great longing and pine. Many an inkling I'd etch in indelible ink. The way my moon never gets eaten. It'll balloon to its fullest... Beaming it's brightest. Seeping from its edges, gushes forming rivers... Bathing my earth in heavenly silver. Calming the thundering hooves... In my heart with rhyme and reason. There are but three words... Words so sacred I dare not utter in vain. Proclamation so heavy my chest could hardly hold in rein. I've immortalised them here... But in invisible ink... Because no one would understand... Of emotions so grand. No one would have a clue... That...
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Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
Invisible Ink
When a traditional Music and dance, Accentuating A century-old bilateral Ties, took place A biracial and mesmeric Greek goddess, With chocolate Lucy's face, Exhibiting elegance And radiant face, With splendour Leased in the citadel of My heart a place Making it palpitate Picking pace Driving home The cross breeding of This with that race At times lends human beings Unmatched grace! ///
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Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
Unmatched Grace
my hidden shames are an excellent source of moral fibre, nurturing, but not nutritious. we coexist in a quiet  mutual acknowledgment, coexisting but un-categorizable, nonetheless, among my oldest cohorts, their singular coordinated characteristic, they are mine alone, not meant to be shared. But they will someday make an excellent poem. Mon jan 2 2023 6:47am @here ———————————————————- the askew are  my oldest companion, dating back to my naissance, faithful, eternal, but single-minded, with a rueful sense of humor, of course, refer to my relatively plentiful hairs inherited from my mother’ genetics. a morning chore, to return their antics to an adult, dignified pose, plenty sufficient to be be brushed, straight back, the preferred orderly compose, of older men who cannot waste time with foolishness, the excessive vanities of curls, parts and pompadours, and yet, every day they wake me with ridicule, mockery,  by presenting themselves.to me, as if electrocuted, each   hair raising itself pointing to the heaven, whence their true Creator resides. no amount of product persuasive, they do what they must do, akimbo, askew, with inordinate amount of malice aforethought and a venomous sense of hairy (and now hoary) absurdity . a splash of water, a handful of rigorous brush strokes, returns order and the pretense of a serious mien, an adult demeanor. But their purpose accomplished, they have reminded me of the absurdity of human vanity, to humble myself before forces more powerful than human self-aggrandizement by accentuating our human foibles. 7:13am same time & place ——————————————- morning prayers are always a trilogy the rounded evenness of three, provides the necessary gravitas of sufficiency, three being not too short, not too long, not too quick, just three right, to impart the seriousness of gratitude for having gained another day upon earth, with it, many multitudes of chances to share thankfulness, kindness, yes, & love too, and to write, one more poem encapsulating all of the above. 7:35am same day same place, same cup of coffee
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Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
Morning Prayers: Hidden Shames/The Askew/ Always a Trilogy
my hidden shames are an excellent source of moral fibre, nurturing, but not nutritious. we coexist in a quiet  mutual acknowledgment, coexisting but un-categorizable, nonetheless, among my oldest cohorts, their singular coordinated characteristic, they are mine alone, not meant to be shared. But they will someday make an excellent poem. Mon jan 2 2023 6:47am @here ———————————————————- the askew are  my oldest companion, dating back to my naissance, faithful, eternal, but single-minded, with a rueful sense of humor, of course, refer to my relatively plentiful hairs inherited from my mother’ genetics. a morning chore, to return their antics to an adult, dignified pose, plenty sufficient to be be brushed, straight back, the preferred orderly compose, of older men who cannot waste time with foolishness, the excessive vanities of curls, parts and pompadours, and yet, every day they wake me with ridicule, mockery,  by presenting themselves.to me, as if electrocuted, each   hair raising itself pointing to the heaven, whence their true Creator resides. no amount of product persuasive, they do what they must do, akimbo, askew, with inordinate amount of malice aforethought and a venomous sense of hairy (and now hoary) absurdity . a splash of water, a handful of rigorous brush strokes, returns order and the pretense of a serious mien, an adult demeanor. But their purpose accomplished, they have reminded me of the absurdity of human vanity, to humble myself before forces more powerful than human self-aggrandizement by accentuating our human foibles. 7:13am same time & place ——————————————- morning prayers are always a trilogy the rounded evenness of three, provides the necessary gravitas of sufficiency, three being not too short, not too long, not too quick, just three right, to impart the seriousness of gratitude for having gained another day upon earth, with it, many multitudes of chances to share thankfulness, kindness, yes, & love too, and to write, one more poem encapsulating all of the above. 7:35am same day same place, same cup of coffee
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I look up at the sky and it feels like love And in my mind words echo and poems form I look at something and the first thing I see is beauty An undying, pleasing combination of qualities that provides a perceptual experience of admiration An entity which is inherently valued and adored I find beauty everywhere Inside of my eyes My heart My body My head The entire world surrounding me I see it in everything Beautiful things, beautiful people, beautiful creatures, beautiful places, beautiful objects, beautiful ideas, beautiful sounds There is beauty in everything I am in love with the moon and the sky The way the sun shines through the trees and paints pictures on the ground below The clouds and how they decorate the blue around them, accentuating its tugging beauty How the birds sing songs for the flowers The way the trees loom over everything and provide shelter and comfort for the smallest creature or an amiable passerby I am in love with how the brook babbles How the wind whispers secrets to the meadows I am in love with every form of beauty And if there is beauty in every single thing I suppose you could say I am in love with all that there is The life and beauty around me are sometimes so breathtaking I don't know what else to do rather than just revel in it
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Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Beauty: (noun) a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses; a beautiful or pleasing thing or person, in particular
earthquakes and such disasters are caused by immodest women; if you are wise you will see this truth women indecently dressed and accentuating contours cause excitement in vigorous young men; if you are spiritual you will see this truth the men who thus get excited (and it’s all the women’s fault, you will agree) and so are led astray by such women and this causes adultery and such immorality which results in seismic activity and so you have earthquakes; if you are pure you will see this truth it’s true because adulterers do it more vigorously hence the earth trembles more readily
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Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
the cause of earthquakes according to a cleric
#6 | Heartbreak in Hatfield I’ve been picturing skies and oceans that are Van Gogh blue with every hue. I have frequently felt warm winds on my skin while listening to Solána Rowe. Moments filled with love, pain, depression and heartbreak are all I know. That black dress keeps accentuating your curves every time I look around your way and admire your figure. We must’ve met in the past life because that’s probably why I want to love you past life. So many warm autumn afternoons have come and gone but I still have a desire to feel your love once again. Love may slip from your lips and drip down your chin but I never want our beautiful melody to become staccato. Those blue jeans keep accentuating your curves every time I look around your way and admire your figure. On autumn afternoons like these, I have felt warm winds on my skin while thinking about you. I’ve been picturing skies and oceans that are Van Gogh blue with every hue. I have frequently felt warm winds on my skin while listening to Solána Rowe. Moments filled with love, pain, depression and heartbreak are all I know.
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Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
Van Gogh Blue
His hands were fluttering birds; paper-thin skin stitched together with cerulean veins clung to bones, accentuating the already unnatural length of his fingers.  They hung at his sides, writhing in a nervous agony - sweat glistened on their blushed palms.  Those hands held the moons of Neptune.  "Where are you going?" I asked, a soft echo.   The young man's head turned and he pulled a sad smile, "Oh, nowhere, really."
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May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 5:31 PM UTC
Spaceman
I wonder, Do you hold others To the same exacting standard As your razor-sharp bangs? Is that why I've never Heard your voice? Why I've never seen your mouth Form any other expression than that Pretty, perfect grimace? "You have beautiful eyes," I want to say; But they remain downcast, Accentuating your general Aura of discomfort.
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Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 8:36 PM UTC
To the girl with the perfect bangs:
Wish I were a satellite To send my cares away Spot them as I’m coming down And vanish with the day Wish I were a lightning storm With color, light, and cloud Silently define the night Or shout my presence loud Wish I were a butterfly Caught in a hurricane Ripped apart with regal force Accentuating pain Wish I were a grain of sand By ocean, lake, or bay Caught within a gentle wave And slowly float away
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Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
Wish I were a satellite
battered screws stripped bare by a hundred thousand terrible twists from an unsteady, inexperienced, or overly excited hand nearly rattling out of their proper positions, hanging rather loosely to the last threads of their holes. fan them as they dangle, fandangle! but a blue gust from beneath the anonymous and unidentifiable bursts the shriveled scraps of low-grade steel from their brittle perches and then one, two, threefourfivesixseventyeightmillion clatterings invade all audibility, heightening --- accentuating --- underscoring each miniscule soundwave                                                 until there is not much more than white noise, crack- ling like a ruddy transitor radio i probably never had but only equate it to for lack of another more proper, perhaps more appropriate, even more...profound (?) word, or, whatever; hardware indignationum! what abuses we dish these inanimates created by us for us!, and, yes, i follow all syncretic trends to their phenomenal (and fusional) morphological ends. if i didn't, how could i know the neutered from the neuterer? attend to the screws; the debased, bemused, once-bedazzled little bits strewn on the floor and frazzled. go on, get 'em up, up off the ground.
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Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
i walked into the garage while having antiquated thoughts, only to find
Conversations overlapping. Suitcase wheels rolling. Babies sobbing. Mothers calling. Headphones blaring. People scurrying. PA system whispering. Starbucks bustling. Airplanes taking off and landing. And in the middle of everything, The lady in black. Sitting motionless, hands grasping her Black umbrella, her sleek black dress Accentuating her young body, And whilst a black veil covers her face, Her tears shine through, reflecting From the bright lights of the airport. When you look closer, Her slim body trembles with concealed sobs, And her calm facade is broken With closer inspection, Broken inside from something undetectable from the outside. The lady in black. We have all been her.
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Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
The Lady in Black
Unpolished weathered wood plays on my palms, I pull and reach and pull an even beat Attending algae'd oars aqueous psalm Altered by the tangled grass I meet, in counterpoint small waves percuss the prow Accentuating the pause before I cull, Mellifluous zephyrs bowing across my brow Enhance the exposition of the gulls, Above the hem of heaven's dress the bright Cerulean bodice trilled with Cirrus lace Beguiles regard, but maddeningly polite She smooths her skirt across the score of space Eclipsing a poet's want to read the ruse, This lady only lingers to amuse.
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Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Lady of the Lake
I wasn't down in the bottom Nor was I up somewhere High I feel no need to race the wind Or spit into the eye I have no driving hunger Nor am I starving for results I'm no more moved by accolades Than I am by any vile insults l could leave right this moment With no need to even look back No more purpose or Direction than a windblown empty paper sack If I had any emotional connection to anything anywhere or at any time The line which held that feeble pull Has now released me from all ties that bind The shadow that I have often followed Or was aware of  in my wake Doesn't seem to be as intrinsically connected As the power wane's and lights dim accentuating every ache So that in turn what might once concern And set on edge some Keen insight To push the ink through an all consuming link Driving that need to succeed by saying it just right Has just become some Tangled mess Endless threads and those ancient dreads For if nothing changes the course or flow Then that sack in directionalless  flight is right in caring not why or when how or where it heads Who cares if all those words ended up simply scattered And you are a hollowed-out core nothing more Defeated and depleted by the knowledge that nothing mattered If words are heard and only those understood the others we ignore You know what I mean understand where I'm coming from And you say wow man I can relate Then tell me my friend before I end what's the difference in a morsel and a crumb If they all taste the same then they are mundane
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Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC
Mundane
I wasn't down in the bottom Nor was I up somewhere High I feel no need to race the wind Or spit into the eye I have no driving hunger Nor am I starving for results I'm no more moved by accolades Than I am by any vile insults l could leave right this moment With no need to even look back No more purpose or Direction than a windblown empty paper sack If I had any emotional connection to anything anywhere or at any time The line which held that feeble pull Has now released me from all ties that bind The shadow that I have often followed Or was aware of  in my wake Doesn't seem to be as intrinsically connected As the power wane's and lights dim accentuating every ache So that in turn what might once concern And set on edge some Keen insight To push the ink through an all consuming link Driving that need to succeed by saying it just right Has just become some Tangled mess Endless threads and those ancient dreads For if nothing changes the course or flow Then that sack in directionalless  flight is right in caring not why or when how or where it heads Who cares if all those words ended up simply scattered And you are a hollowed-out core nothing more Defeated and depleted by the knowledge that nothing mattered If words are heard and only those understood the others we ignore You know what I mean understand where I'm coming from And you say wow man I can relate Then tell me my friend before I end what's the difference in a morsel and a crumb If they all taste the same then they are mundane
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“I want my ears to be your journal.” “I’d rather you cut my wrist than yours.” “Your wrists are beautiful; don’t add another scar to them.” I sat on the edge of your couch playing “Chasing Cars” and I look over to see you tearing up. I don’t know how to explain the connection that I feel to you. I’ve known you for a few months but it feels like a lifetime, and yet so much of you remains undiscovered. I want to discover you discover your body discover your heart discover your soul piece by piece, your personality is an enigma, a mystery, one that I’d love to unravel- but never all the way because hey, what’s the fun in that, right? “Any time you want this, I’m game.” “Sit back, relax. This is about you.” “Your body is a temple; I’m focusing on making my way towards the treasure.” I’m so used to jumping in doing everything at once figuring out where we go from there but the moment I mentioned that you said, **** that.” Slow, sweet, sensational, kind, loving, caring, gentle- not rough, not hard, not ***** just us. Just looking and seeing a person you love so **** much that you trust so completely, “I felt comfortable. Comfortable being with you, comfortable being me.” “I love everything about you. Even the hard spots on your fingers, the calluses from playing guitar because it’s another thing that connects us.” I explain to you that in my mind, *** means love, and that’s why I’m coming on so strong but later on Hands trailing over scarred skin and a smile that says, “I’m here for you,” a pair of lips that whispers, “I’ll never leave you”, the push and pull of your calloused fingertips on my hips, your breath in my ear, my hands running along the curves of your back I am in love with you. I would say I have loved you to the point of madness but that would be an understatement. I have lost myself in your gaze, gasped at your soft touch and I have loved you beyond madness- in a good way. Let’s lay here in eachothers’ arms outside at midnight and listen to Shinedown as the moon shines down accentuating the labyrinth of smoke around us, let's chase cars around our heads, let’s forget the world for one night.
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Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Chasing Cars
“I want my ears to be your journal.” “I’d rather you cut my wrist than yours.” “Your wrists are beautiful; don’t add another scar to them.” I sat on the edge of your couch playing “Chasing Cars” and I look over to see you tearing up. I don’t know how to explain the connection that I feel to you. I’ve known you for a few months but it feels like a lifetime, and yet so much of you remains undiscovered. I want to discover you discover your body discover your heart discover your soul piece by piece, your personality is an enigma, a mystery, one that I’d love to unravel- but never all the way because hey, what’s the fun in that, right? “Any time you want this, I’m game.” “Sit back, relax. This is about you.” “Your body is a temple; I’m focusing on making my way towards the treasure.” I’m so used to jumping in doing everything at once figuring out where we go from there but the moment I mentioned that you said, **** that.” Slow, sweet, sensational, kind, loving, caring, gentle- not rough, not hard, not ***** just us. Just looking and seeing a person you love so **** much that you trust so completely, “I felt comfortable. Comfortable being with you, comfortable being me.” “I love everything about you. Even the hard spots on your fingers, the calluses from playing guitar because it’s another thing that connects us.” I explain to you that in my mind, *** means love, and that’s why I’m coming on so strong but later on Hands trailing over scarred skin and a smile that says, “I’m here for you,” a pair of lips that whispers, “I’ll never leave you”, the push and pull of your calloused fingertips on my hips, your breath in my ear, my hands running along the curves of your back I am in love with you. I would say I have loved you to the point of madness but that would be an understatement. I have lost myself in your gaze, gasped at your soft touch and I have loved you beyond madness- in a good way. Let’s lay here in eachothers’ arms outside at midnight and listen to Shinedown as the moon shines down accentuating the labyrinth of smoke around us, let's chase cars around our heads, let’s forget the world for one night.
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Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance   Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst ********** asphyxiations As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination
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Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Anthropic Pathologies from Olympus to the Acropolis (allegorically incorrect)
A dismal despot, allowing distracting dimensions. Another distant drowning accentuating dire directions. Assimilated destinies detailing a dreadful downfall. Accumulated disinterest destroying antique displayed drywall. Abstract desires depicting abnormal - doper, Destined attention deficit disorder
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Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
A.D.D.
From your head to your toes; inside and out; I Love You with every Essence of my Being, every Impulse of my Body, and every Beat of my Heart. I long for You when I'm at work, I feel You with me every minute of every Day. i can't see myself living without you. In the event of my struggles to find Our future. The way You make me feel as I feel your soul with every touch of your body, ever Caress, every kiss of your Body , and the way You wash your body as the water trickles down your lustrous curves accentuating the Beauty that is YOU. I feel your soul flow, your Contemporary mind fills my soul. Inspirational beats of your heart sets the course for Love and Passions Excitement that intertwines ourselves together as One,and One we shall be as our sweet nectar combines; One we shall be. : To Love is to always hold on to your truth and true loves motive of the hearts blood that flows freely for each other, with each other, and as You breath each other. : Don't take the One You truly Love for granted; because If/While you do you start to loose the best life hast to offer not only for you, but as well for your true love. So have faith in Love, in Her every fiber and give Her all of you; For Good/Bad, Better/Worse.
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Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 6:06 PM UTC
Deeply, Truely, Lovely
The storm was eerie today. I was standing outside, Tears streaming down my face. Soon they were joined by rain. It was cold and bright. I screamed. The thunder echoed me. Nature was hurting too. Or maybe she was trying to soothe my wounds. I went inside. To lie in bed, Dripping wet. Pondering things that will never come to pass. I peered out the window, Just in time to see lightning flash. It excited me. I wish it didn’t. The exhilaration is involuntary. I hear the faint sounds of electric rhythm. She Wants Revenge is on repeat, Mixing with the storm, Accentuating every beat. I’m baffle by their insight. How can a man tell the story of a broken woman so well? From her perspective, Like he knows how she feels. And what she’s thinking when she’s all alone. Maybe it’s because he loved her, And absorbed her, and destroyed her, Their true feelings now unknown. But passion haunts me. As I sink into their tale. Hoping this storm will cleanse me. And that Rachel will prevail.
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Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 8:49 AM UTC
Lightning Storm
She could stand alongside the Gods, with her Greek and imposing figure. She seemed to know the true meaning of grace, grazing asphalt with her presence. Her gentle legs brought upon silent admiration, her cinched waist accentuating hidden curves, it was as if her body held a soft prowess, dominating the art of anatomy. This statuesque beauty held no shame in her step, she was rhythmic and lyrical, I couldn't keep my eyes off.
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May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
A Mortal Aphrodite
Softness surrounds her eyes accentuating a look of wisdom. Contentment tempers her voice. A voice that flows to greet one 
 like a mellow brook 
 sparkling in the sunrise. Her words traced to paper speak of a true heart that pumps compassion. Her poetic refrains spill forth like lava flowing on a rock. Yet her steps are gentle on the earth as though each journey is a walking meditation. Observing is an obsession that ignites each draft she writes. What if she changed? What if she lived with the boldness of her writing and the zest of her poems, would her words become tempered and her rhymes fall hollow on the page?
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Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Her Steps are Gentle on the Earth *