"admirably" poems
Never be ashamed of your native language
Say those beautiful
Phrases and words
Loud and proud.
Do not let anyone stop you from speaking
Let your voice be
Heard and recognized
Don't you dare let anybody make fun of your accent
Embrace the thickness
Don't ever lose grasp of it.
For it is one of the precious treasure
You could ever hold on to
After leaving your homeland
To start a new life in a foreign country
That offers you a whole lot of new opportunities.
Hold on to your mother tongue
As tight as you can
Because this new country you now live in
Will do its very best to change your identity
And oppress your culture.
So it be French or Spanish
Korean, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese
Tagalog, Cebuano, Ilonggo
Greek, Punjabi, Hindi, Sinhalese
Arabic, Vietnamese, Portuguese
German or Russian
And any other language there is in the world.
It has exquisite words that just cannot be simply translated into English
For it has far greater meaning behind it
It is very much well-written
Alluring to one's eye and
Spoken eloquently and gracefully
That the English language is not able to compare
To your admirably and enticing
Well-spoken mother tongue.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
Are you aware,
did you know,
have you been told
you've got killer voice,
leaving me no choice
but preemptive action...
Let's ensure mutual destruction
of clothes;
my thoughts
made those illegal
in a secret meeting;
that security council
in my head...
while the heart was busy beating,
doing its own thing...
Captives in my cells
twisted and bled out
their escape plans...
Excuse me, got sidetracked,
what's your name again?
I'm twenty-three
but only if you switch the digits.
For a high-functioning whatever,
I must say I'm admirably sane
but you pull the wrong lever,
and the lyrics spill with the melody
breaking the levee.
So what do you do for a living?
That's adorable.
How are we still sitting
and talking here?
You thought I'd be taller;
I was expecting you'd run off screaming.
Let's drink to that, the small victories!
Time will tell what's next
if only we listen,
instead of reading more text,
unless we're OK with missing out.
God, my thoughts do talk loud!
When did your face get so near?
Lips go "clink", and eyes go "Cheers!"
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
I ended up in the hospital again
I was in a pretty nasty car accident
I was in the hospital for a little while
quite a few bones of mine suffered a dent
they forced me in for about a week
I couldn't wait to leave
however a nurse was transferred onto my floor,
she looked so good, I couldn't believe
myself, I wanted to stay in bed
heart monitor and all
and needles leaving my bed
she did get job admirably, bringing Me food
doing her rounds every single shift she was on
I casually threw a couple of little lines at her, playfully, you know, to give her a smile or two as the day wore on
Well on the last day I was in
the lovely nurse walked into the room
"this isn't your shift?" I said, somewhat surprised
that's when I noticed her hand slide up her thighs...
She walked to the door and locked us inside
I saw a sense of burning lust in her eyes
she walked back to my bed and kissed me long and took away the pain
my God, she was so wet my leg felt as if it was caught in the rain
So I asked "Is this my going away present?"
She replied "Yes my patient, for taking your shots you've earned it"
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Green glass
but it's French
which makes it
verre vert.
The French should like that.
They appreciate
their jeux de mots.
Not a statue
of a man
but it could be.
Not a piece of art at all
except
I have made it so
by saying it is one.
Its qualities
are visual
and tactile at once
the material heavy
(over a kilo)
not so much transparent
as translucent
the colour
from under the sea
the surface curved
smooth
glossy
the shape functional
admirably suited for its purpose
its name
embossed on the back
(or the front?)
giving a clue.
L' ÉLECTRO VERRE
redundant insulator
from an overhead power cable
found object
(objet trouvé)
from the garden
of friends
in the Alpes-Maritimes.
This souvenir
potential paperweight
ornament
sculpture
is more than all of these.
Souvenir after all
is French for memory.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
*First light in the Hudson Valley
Arbor Day of April, 1970.*
Adrenaline coursed through our young
bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose.
As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles
to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds
called out from the misty swamps.
Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife
were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats.
Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued
warning cries from deep in the woods,
where blights were killing our trees
with increasing frequency.
Three of us rode together, cycling in relative
silence, until we came to a meadow
selected for our early breakfast picnic.
We feasted on special fruits and cheeses,
hungrily stuffing in rare treats.
One friend began to send iridescent
soap bubbles into the chilly air.
Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud
of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun.
One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass.
We stared at it, somehow understanding that here
was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet.
Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance
of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us.
The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned.
We were sleepy in our classes that morning;
most of our teachers understanding that we stood
now for something worthwhile, that we believed in,
and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval.
Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show
designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents.
An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave
of changes that our generation brought with us.
Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife
flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium,
accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of
Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary
that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913.
We had no idea then how much worse things would become.
All these years later, we each do our part, blessing
the efforts of our children and their children,
hoping fervently that we are not too late.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
The Hawker Hurricane is a British fighter design from the 1930s. Some 14,000 Hurricane and Sea Hurricane fighters and fighter-bombers were built by the end of 1944。 August 1940 brought what has become the Hurricane's shining moment in history: The Battle of Britain. RAF Hurricanes accounted for more enemy aircraft kills than all other defenses combined, including all aircraft and ground defenses. Later in the war, the Hurricane served admirably in North Africa, Burma, Malta, and nearly every other theater in which the RAF participated. The Hurricane underwent many modifications during its life, resulting in many major variants, including the Mk IA, with interchangeable wings housing eight 7.7mm (0.303in) guns;the Mk IIC, with a Merlin ** engine; the Mk IID, a tankbuster with two 40mm anti-tank guns plus two 7.7mm guns. During the war, Hurricanes were sold to Egypt, Finland, India, the Irish， Persia, Turkey and the USSR Air Corps.More in http://www.rangorango.com/124-series-c-1_5.html
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
I fall in love
At the press of a button.
It rips through me
In a way that would make
Robert Smith
Outrageously envious.
You are some kind of
Annabel Lee
In the best and
Worst way.
Life isn’t perfect until I hear
You.
I drown in the happiest oceans
And need no one to
Save me.
It’s the best.
It’s the best when you
Blow me a kiss.
It’s the best.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
The guy picked a flower in the garden
He took it carefully into his nose
Inhaled, it deeply and smiled
I wish I was the flower
The photographer kneeled before the flower bed
Take a snap and another after another
He looks at the photos admirably
Adoring its colors, glorifying its beauty
I wish I was the flower
A lover bought a dozen of flowers
He caresses the bouquet carefully
Caring like it was a delicate glass
I wish I was the flower
Flowers in the vase
Day after day after days
The flowers turned old and ugly
The next thing I knew
Flowers were in the bin along with other waste
That's when I knew... I am the flower
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Won't you shotgun blast me to the face?
Though do tell, don't I make you celestial?
-It's my specialty,
Spectacularly, I see you dancing in the clouds
Spectrally resembling and unsettling
An unfurling semblance of reality
Breathe in me, Goddess of my dreamscape
Eclipsing my fate and alleviating waking life
Admirably divine,
A collision of concupiscent melodies
As we perennially intertwine among stars
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
You.
You are 10,000 miles away
and yet, I still want to run my hands through your
wet, dark brown hair.
I want to press myself against your warm body
and live in the steam and smell of a hot shower.
I want to breathe in your kiss and taste the shampoo
that slowly dripped from your wet mop and fell on your lips.
Find a cheap motel room and dream there.
Dream the things you live and live the things you dream.
In that dimly lit, musky, hotel room that I'm dreaming of right now,
where we can forget the world.
I want to forget Clint Eastwood and September and the snow.
I can't remember the color of your eyes
because you kiss with eyes closed
and it's been an awful while since I've opened them.
I wish.
I want to watch you drive down California highways--
sunglasses on and my bare feet hanging out the window, my nailpolish sparkling in
the California sun.
I want to make you laugh, and watch your perfect eyebrows crinkle with
your nose when you admirably look at me.
I want to take pieces of paper and write my heart on them
then put them in a memory box
and throw them all out the window.
I want to go to the airport and find you standing
all alone,
looking lost .
Then pull over in a car and make the night alive.
Listen to the stars laughing and lose myself inside of you.
I want the games.
Challenging and, well, you know.
I want the way you make me feel.
Like I'm about to burst out of my skin
at any moment
because of passion.
I want. I want. I want.
You.
Find a dark place deep into the night and settle down
for a couple hours and let our minds shut
down for once.
No devil truck or eyeless lips or hand guns to decide our fate.
and just slip away into each other's bodies,
and become submerged in each other's kiss.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
sometimes i can't trust myself not
to buckle under the weight of
your near enough's and almost
words you can't quite force out from
between my teeth. like the accusatory
cutlery your eyes never fail to
reflect this would look better with
the lights off and between sheets but
then again i always have had trouble
with the twin tormentors dark
and sleeping. sometimes i feel as
though red is the only colour i know
and you insist on inhabiting it you have
ruined sunsets and arsenal and jelly
for me. like i was not made to walk
through fire just as well as ocean i have
merely forgotten the way spoon fed
on ashes and bad pennies glinting
off the electrics i refuse to give you
my spectrum. sometimes my
ribcage admirably lives up to its
name and i find myself choking
on thoughts i'd sworn not to
inhale. like non newtonian fluid
i have inherited your sudden cusps
and contradictions lit up momentarily
only to be put out when i am around you
i find myself craving cigarettes.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
*yeah, they cut out my third ****** from my shoulder blade and i turned into a bond girl; oh god, you're not one of those bulletproof people confused about love like a nurse confused by a disease? you are? oh god help me... you'll go far! straight to daddy's pocket purse and saturday night... you'll throw stilettos at chandeliers and expect a catwalk blackout... god forbid that should happen with everyone biting their toenails.*
between us we share the bathroom
and the bedroom,
we sit on the stilt framing see-through of it admirably
airy and welcoming stars:
wishing for foxes and women respectively,
all you can hear is a meow... meow... meow...
meow meow... moo... µ... meow... meow interchange
between these two rooms in the garden air,
it’s like a fetish orchestra giving ‘prior to sleep’ crescendos,
and it makes sense to write a forgivable poem
of this least content, content with the least as me writing it;
well d'uh, of course i had to write it,
i wasn't going to stage a boxing match with stella artois
losing care for words and taking care of action,
i was going to mediate the page like a kite being passed
on with paddington bear's secret inscriptions to get from
london to sydney; i hope it worked.
the drunkard? oh... he's either silent, crying, laughing,
or simply reading.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
(This poem posted in tribute to the life &memory; of Robin Williams...Rest in Peace)
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
(Edwin Arlington Robinson)
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Limbo
Black hole quasar pulsar star meridians oblique oracle messages from beyond the lost between the bureau of the forgotten
Dreams images disjointed some admirably projected on the screen of the mind they tell you a mystery where is the key
Like being in a library books everywhere any subject any topic whatever your taste or fancy but without retrieval how rotten
Space fascinates holds men enthralled the searching of the cosmos the whole of life it has consumed the overly curious
What I’m talking about is if you could take a meteor shower put it in a black velvet bag capture true magic hold for your disposal
Take droplets of rain speak to them and they would obey your voice become for one hour that which you desire most from life
Find the passage to the center of the mountain a gapping cave where a true oracle is beheld divine utterance her real espousal
You take knowledge long hidden disperse it among the most troubled and confused and aura breaks and arches those of need
Life’s dilemmas and contrasts these intangible twisted knotted fields of gloom you touch bows unknown understanding blooms
Course contrary buffeted by unpleasant wind oh to know how to rescind make rays of hope grow in resplendent rows
The common coal fired and pressured over millennia does purist light ignite the mind soul and heart in excitement it consumes
Striation found in the cold glacier this natural marking take from it learn the soul has divine grooves that only play spiritual tunes
This might sound farfetched but one day it will be the norm for Gods family the unexpected the unbelievable your daily life
Now we are in neutral or the drive is mostly in the natural like you build the best house then someone sticks up an eye sore
There is the contrast the conflict your spiritual house shines then your enemy self wrecks and devalues ruination rife
The spirit oracle revealed that the devil wants you as a trophy in a case how nice God wants you but he wants you as family
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
Girl, those beautiful eyes
Really mesmerize me
So pretty as can be
Along with your loving personality
They hold the window to your soul
Those eyes are simply captivating
Filled with heart and grace
And admirably breathtaking
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
Throughout the previous years filled with self doubt, lack of self care and confidence, mind that occupied nothing but negativity towards everything in my life and the amount of pain and tears that could sink the whole world. Though I have went through heartache and pieces of me was shattered as an individual I have progressed quite admirably in the year 2016 and thus far is one of my best success yet. I have grown more levelheaded to see a different perspective, as well I have been more careful and thorough with my decision making skills. I am sharing these thoughts because I can finally say I have endured the pain and learned to let go of things I simply have no control over. It took me years to fill my head with a positive mentality, I admit there are still times I feel the wave of sadness coming over me but I have managed to control any thoughts of hopelessness. In my best regards to myself and to anyone who is going through the same path as me or to the person reading this right now: I truly hope that you will continue to grow to achieve the best that you can be, that this new year (more years to come) brings you genuine love, happiness and a proper physical and mental health. Also I am hoping that you are surrounded by optimistic individuals who will benefit into helping you get to your goals, if you aren't in that position just yet I send you strength to cut off anyone of anything that holds you back from becoming the best version of you. As a poet I don't want to sugarcoat you with any metaphors or similes because your worth as a person cannot be compared, to wishing you'll stop comparing yourself to others cause there can't be a better you other than you. So here's to a promising future, new discoveries, more self-improvement, remembering to take better care for yourself and years to come that awaits a lot of adventure and laughter.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
I almost had my first kiss once.
Almost.
It was on a cold December night and thick pure snowflakes were falling.
Falling to be caught on my golden hair, or in his, slightly darker.
I stepped back into the shelter of my front porch
but not into my warm house, oh no. I was a prisoner.
Locked out and befriended by the cold winter.
But it was fine, because I was with him, but not perfect because we were both alone.
He, shooting hoops and me, waiting patiently and admirably.
So admirably.
In my eyes, everything he did was wonderful and exciting.
Worry filled me n the fact that something was off and something was on his mind.
Was it me? couldn't be. Maybe.
The frozen basketball rolled smoothly, almost practiced, off his hand.
and in his stiff voice he mouthed the need to come inside.
I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and waited only 30 seconds... 45 seconds...a minute longer.
But, like most people, I fear the airiness of awkwardness
and the moments that you stand before a person and draw a blank and have not a word to say.
I feared it and I turned my back.
It could have been perfect. It would have been perfect.
had I just opened my eyes and seen, because I didn't see.
Looking back now, I see.
My first kiss was close.
So close.
So painfully close it taunts me.
It taunts me when I'm siting alone, pondering.
When I'm alone with him and we talk about things.
When my friend bring up their magical first kisses.
When I remember the fact that I still love him, after all these years.
When his hand lightly touches mine or accidentally brushes my back and I realize, it could've been so much more.
But mostly, it taunts me on cold winter nights
when the heavy white snow is lightly falling, catching in my golden hair or landing on his, slightly darker.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
She told me you worked at space camp now.
That must be fun, right?
I can see you sprinting through
In a bright blue flight suit
A kid attached to every ligament
You breathless, with an enormous grin.
You'd mention being overweight
And I would hit you playfully across the arm
Deny it like Peter denied Christ
Three times.
She told me you met a new girl.
Showed me a picture too.
She has dainty red curls.
I guess you meant it;
You do have a thing for red heads.
They say you met her at the Lego station
In Books A Million.
I can envision you stumbling upon her
Smashing a Death Star into an Ebon Hawk
And you would admirably gawk
At this childlike beauty.
Next thing you know
You would be prancing away
With a little piece of paper in your pocket
And a confident smirk on your face.
~
A sixteen year old girl can only conceive
Ideological fantasies
But a nineteen year old boy kept them company
Beneath the pillow of her dreams.
Though the first to stir from Make-Believe
Is cursed as the first one to leave.
Even as a child
I stared desperately at the darkened ceiling
Their snores and sighs my only lullabies.
And I would witness the misty dew
Clear the horizon at the gale's morning song.
I covered my tracks as I left
Yet I swear I heard your heart wrench
In your stupor.
~
The cursor blinks incessantly
On the blank page of a perfectionist
The only words satisfying
Are born not from my lips
But of an Irish mother-
Or perhaps a lover-
Long ago:
*May the road rise up to lead you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God keep you in the palm of His hand.*
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
If there was a song in this world so melodious
So sweet
So beautiful
That it was the anthem of lovers
Of sweethearts
Of beloveds
And I sang it to you so tenderly
So vibrantly
So lovingly
Would you love me back so truly
So unconditionally
So faithfully
Just as I do to you, my love, so wonderful
So fantastical
So undeniable
And would you so graciously
So honestly
So astonishingly
Accept me into your arms so humbly
So loyally
So admirably
As you are the only one so dear
So adored
So cherished
And as I would lay in your arms of warmth
Of gentleness
Of love
I would sing that song of romance
Of care
Of devotion
Because our love would be so boundless
So limitless
So Marvelous
So, would you care for a song my love?
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
Suddenly my friends vanish
We entered a cave as one
Finding rest,I must
Slumbering
Gone adrift in humanity admirably
Shifting to reflection
Deepen inside a mindless cave
Humankind is misplaced
Unsolvable solutions boggling
Needing my friends
What pace I do next?
Settling in dreams and reality
A picture of antiquity
Falling to a new opening
Which cannot be reach
Please somebody, please somebody!
Are you there?
Before I become extinct
Nov 21, 2009
Nov 21, 2009 at 11:39 PM UTC
Look at this fool.
This babbling fool that stands
over me.
A garden full of burning flowers
visible through his eyes,
but not through ear to ear.
The things that run from his mouth-
which I do not blame them from doing-
**** my brain cells.
He thinks I care.
All I want the former fool.
He who taught me all I know.
The walking book cover,
dictionary, Britannica.
The ultimate thesaurus, movie star.
Bob the Rabbit.
It's in its cage.
Say hi to Bob.
I admire you.
The temperature.
The west and east egg.
All I desire is again
to sit and look up and admirably
watch words spill out of his mouth.
Not these dead song birds
flying out of his.
Not this spineless man walking
on his tongue.
Not, Not,
Not him.
In the distance, a foghorn yells, "No one cares!"
but he is Hellen Keller's doppelganger.
I am slowly going brain dead......
black.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Oh the kiddos outta there
whoever again dare to call me names that end it with a Girl or a Mademoiselle
You at most reflect an image of me to fit to the level of your potency
same as to a ridicule of your fantasy
weeping and spitting big turfs of
-at most admirably-
musical words
as your age allows you to be
an equivalence that functions still
OH THE WOW in most efficiency
only whenever the rhythmic pumping ejects seedlings
to swim up the rat-race
from your reptilian starship
parked at sacred ocean’s depths
crossing a few inches behind thyn abdomen
towards your jellyfish brain
and that’s shorter than TIME
oh the poor whining with BIG Holy One
hidden in the oaths of your monstrous
zombie-town
so now listen in PURE Attention to me (if you can)
It’s True my first kiss was at age twenty three
HAHAHA and yet not even a romantic one
at most an obligatory
who knows maybe a task
from the higher self
probably to teach me
or the physical body -
YES and the last one at age forty
that tried to **** all the ****** futility outta me
the rest and the in between remains dark and edgy and thorny
who cares when it does not bother me
what business does relate to you oh my Sexuality
or the inherited **** beauty
but that makes not less of me when
I am now almost 43
my coal black hair made of Sea Breeze
grows the beauty of my aging color
to the creamy WHITE topping of delicious wisdom cookies
baked by my peaceful wishing
the joy of my child innocence remains
to fire Passion and Desire
which I reserve
to one/ single poem only
who made me realize the truth of me recently
that I haven’t yet dated … a Monsieur
who dares to call me a Madame
with whom I can fully be Me and grow towards a maturity.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC