"bosoms" poems
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,
So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start
Of married flowers to either side outspread
From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red,
Fawned on each other where they lay apart.
Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till from some wonder of new woods and streams
He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.
30k
Dearest Destined Jewel,
Of longest heartfelt yearning, Bestow on thee, Hamlet awaits, Ophelia picking flowers, Magnolia branches speaking, Beautifications of Spring.
Supreme buds of new life, Magnoliaceae of Queen bees, An enterprise of wonder, Symbolic child's enchanted play, Faeries in flight whisper attractions, Fondness, Les fleurs du mal.
Ample blossoms, Bosoms of delight, Devouring light, Little birds sing, Nestling, Chirping a languishing cacophony, Blissful unawareness, Nature nurture the soul.
A slip then fall, Nearby church bells distract, Into abyss fallen, Elevated body all at once, Floating amidst flora, Drowning, Petticoat woven dress, Resting on fresh valley water, Immersion, No contention, Hamlet awaits.
© Sia Jane
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
OPPOSITE my chamber window,
On the sunny roof, at play,
High above the city's tumult,
Flocks of doves sit day by day.
Shining necks and snowy bosoms,
Little rosy, tripping feet,
Twinkling eyes and fluttering wings,
Cooing voices, low and sweet,-
Graceful games and friendly meetings,
Do I daily watch and see.
For these happy little neighbors
Always seem at peace to be.
On my window-ledge, to lure them,
Crumbs of bread I often strew,
And, behind the curtain hiding,
Watch them flutter to and fro.
Soon they cease to fear the giver,
Quick are they to feel my love,
And my alms are freely taken
By the shyest little dove.
In soft flight, they circle downward,
Peep in through the window-pane;
Stretch their gleaming necks to greet me,
Peck and coo, and come again.
Faithful little friends and neighbors,
For no wintry wind or rain,
Household cares or airy pastimes,
Can my loving birds restrain.
Other friends forget, or linger,
But each day I surely know
That my doves will come and leave here
Little footprints in the snow.
So, they teach me the sweet lesson,
That the humblest may give
Help and hope, and in so doing,
Learn the truth by which we live;
For the heart that freely scatters
Simple charities and loves,
Lures home content, and joy, and peace,
Like a soft-winged flock of doves.
11.1k
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale ******* that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
KISSING MR. CHELIDON GOODBYE
Ho...ho. . .oh!
I don't know
if I should be
telling you this.
I was just sweet
as in 16 &
never been kissed
and my *******
hadn't yet arrived
though I prayed and prayed
to a God who did not
heed my girlish plea.
All the girls in my year
had already budded.
******* to the right of me!
Breast to the left of me!
Into the valley of despair
I rode my Raleigh
alas alas
breast-less!
I practiced kissing
by kissing
the you know
inside of
( the whatchamacallit? )
my elbow the
chelidon so called
by an old falling-apart
medical dictionary.
I clipped some hair
from our Yorkshire terrier
stuck it on the crick of
my right elbow
so that it became
my first moustache'd kiss.
And so, was born
my Mr. Chelidon.
Pathetic...yes...I know
but the year after
my bosoms arrived
with a suddenness
that took my breath
away.
I breasting the waves
like a ship's figurehead
as I dived into the sea
a Venus for boys to see.
I was my *******
and my ******* were me.
Somehow I could then not
stopped being kissed.
And once kissed
grew addicted to it.
The bliss of the kiss.
I was my own drug.
I gave Mr. Chelidon
the elbow.
Discovered the joy of boys
inventing various uses
for them
as they
discovered
me.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
XXVI. TO DIONYSUS (13 lines)
(ll. 1-9) I begin to sing of ivy-crowned Dionysus, the loud-
crying god, splendid son of Zeus and glorious Semele. The rich-
haired Nymphs received him in their bosoms from the lord his
father and fostered and nurtured him carefully in the dells of
Nysa, where by the will of his father he grew up in a sweet-
smelling cave, being reckoned among the immortals. But when the
goddesses had brought him up, a god oft hymned, then began he to
wander continually through the woody coombes, thickly wreathed
with ivy and laurel. And the Nymphs followed in his train with
him for their leader; and the boundless forest was filled with
their outcry.
(ll. 10-13) And so hail to you, Dionysus, god of abundant
clusters! Grant that we may come again rejoicing to this season,
and from that season onwards for many a year.
7.8k
two women
a single
Gemini
of desire
the yin
the yang
betwixt
the known
and unreachable
swinging
on wide
arcs of
extremis
inhabiting
opposite
polar worlds
and all
the spaces
in between
intrepid
sailors
dare hope
to explore
T
the outer
R
the inner
T’s
tiny
name
betrays
a big
robusto
femininity
bombastically
womanly
big *****
jazz *****
perfumed musky
hips and ****
that rock
and those
lips
oh,
those ruby red
Norma Jean lips
I’m puckered
up
begging her
to paste a big
rouge smooch
on my eager lips
press those
bustling bosoms
onto my face
wrap those
arms round me
with a rasperous
hug
shake me
with gyrations
of your gracious
shimmy thang
you wow
the bow
out of this
dog
taking lovers
prisoner
with the
coy blink
of wide
eyes
flashing
lashes
batting
brow
boldly
being
a force
of a
mothers
nature
bearing
and
belting
Bessie’s
*****
blues
to a
howling
crowd
wanting
more
fully
enthralled
bedazzled
enraptured
with quixotic
hypnotics
I'm frozen
solid
hoping to
melt
into the
heat
of your
inviting
fire
R
bespeaks
whispers
from an
inner place
she lines the
lost desires
of a yearning heart
she offers the
softest curves
the delicious touch
the wet presence
of a delicate tongue
limpid fingers
hide shy sly
*******
offering
invitations
to hidden nests
humming the incarnate
dark forest secrets
of bloomed lilacs
and sweet carnations
the voice of poems
dance and flutter
from her mouth
as the lightest
butterfly
wings wayward
onto soft hearts
yearning
seducement
her
kimono
gently parts
at the slightest
suggestion
of a rising
breeze
her songs
invite lovers
to pillowed
chambers
daring
intrepid
men to
risk the
death of
desirous
tempests
I melt
into the
delicate
complexity
of your
fleshy heat
my dear
celestial
twins
the lovely
Gemini
each different
reduce me
in differing ways
to a puddle
of rippling water
reflecting
the glorious
elegance of
wondrous
ambrosial
femininity
Dedicated to
T& R
Music Selection:
Barbra Streisand
Pretty Women
Oakland
4/26/12
jbm
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
Your stars glimmers
Belching, wrenching
Exposing my ethnic aura
A tape of heavenly bliss
The acoustic rhythm
Essentially subliminal
Satiably insatiable
Tracked traces covered
Your tree branching out
Railing through my bark
My bosoms blossoming
Tip-toe to my bareness
Your entirely arousing
A summation of beauty
A firefly to enlighten
Encased within to liven
A body I hold twinkles
Whistle magnetic presence
Sprinkle my mind to entwine
Assign your soul peacefully
A might, a light at sight
A whole in me,a one in you
Pluck, nip,smash,trap,stash
In dreamscapes and reality
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
I am like a baby in your bay
You hum as I play the tirkit
Based in your basic base
I heat as your beats explode
I’ll hold you as a hungry lover
An angered one waiting in line
I’ll suckle your filled bosoms
Caress your hide in ecstasy
I’ll put you in my mouth to ****
My idea of a realistic performance
A subtle pitch, altered frequencies
Among my dozen of reigned rhythms
A 15th century Persian marvel
Now musing Punjab, Assam,Goa
Maharashtra,Karnataka and Pashtun
Amuse me in another foreign soil
Trance and ****** me to an addiction
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
From white canvass,
a blank ledger of potent
expectation,
awaiting form and function.
The artist invokes
shade and light.
The seminal swirl of
her brush signals
simple hue,
discrete structures.
Then flesh strokes imbue
sanguine blush of
satin seams
and outstretched limbs;
spring greens and rampant peaks,
reaching high into
gossamer nimbus. Calm swells,
abundant bosoms,
beckoning fields of luxuriant temptation.
From an eternal cool,
the (all too) temporary warmth
of her embrace
lies just beyond:
enticing, luring, teasing
into torrid desire.
From whence,
the dream
unfolds...
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
Her skin looks pale,
White shedding brown,
like a golden brown velvet
strewn across a skeleton
made from Cleopatra’s frame.
There is nothing to it,
her sway is flawless
in her stilettos,
O’ God those stilettos.
She pave the roads with
blossoms of Primrose
and Calla Lilies, as the tip
of her heels stab the earth.
Her body melts cotton candies
in winter,
her curve bakes pastries
in snowy mountains,
It was an unbelievable sight,
like a sunrise, she climbs the edges
of the highest of peaks,
like the wind, she enters a heart by
the creaks; like a creep.
Perhaps nothing shall stop her,
Her footsteps continue to pierce
the soil, making a sound close to the
cracking of my knuckles.
She made people snivel and weep
when she enters the room
with her slender black dress.
She makes heads turn almost
to their full circle,
it would be death to steal a
peek, or glance, a peep.
She is the sun on earth:
hot and highly radiated
but too tempting to be left alone.
She is like the still waters:
calm, clean and serene
but too quiet to know the depth;
and still willingly jump in.
It is like believing again.
She is like believing again.
She is tiny as is her name,
It shall rhyme as the bell shines,
Her hair, her coiled twisted hair,
is much like herself: curled, twisted
bended.
Yet she is, perhaps, the twist in life,
the curl of wind on her bosoms, or
the bend of spines when eyes turn
to gaze at her splendor.
It is uncertain what she is,
but I know, vaguely.
She, like a Zinnia, shall be the
decoration of this planet.
She shall be, though exaggerated,
the reason for our existence.
She, corrupted and dangerous,
shall reclaim her spot in divinity
and shall forever more be
my source of inspiration.
Like a stream of clear water,
gushing down the torrent
ovately,
ornately,
creatively,
purposefully…
She shall see herself,
breathe herself and know that
only she is the one she could
deliberately fall…
…or fail.
The black sand shall be her dress,
the grey rocks shall be her stilettos,
that clear water be her conscience
as she takes on the world.
With her cursive eye shadows
she will see the funny side of
life; she will see it thoroughly.
She, regardless, will persist
and resist the failure
of herself, with the moist
creek on her seductive lips.
She is seduction.
She is temptation.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove;
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos’d from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
5.3k
it was the Cubist who created the space and color that
everywhere today assails our eyes
in uniform architecture and monotonous
design; the various branches of modern art
through tedious & exhaustive experiment
& research creating a massive cultural sinkhole
whose banal discoveries unveil for all the sameness
of form, line and color;
Quote from Gorky's 'Camouflage', 1942: I like the heat;
the tenderness; the edible; the lusciousness;
the song of a single person
in a bathtub full of water.
I like Ucello, Grunewald, Ingres,
the drawings and sketches for paintings
of Seurat and that man Pablo Picasso;
I measure all things by weight.
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I love Mougouch, Gorky's wife. What about papa Cézanne;
I like the wheat fields, the plow, the apricots,
those flirts of the sun. And bread above all.
My lever is the purple; About 194 feet away
from our house in Armenia on the road to the
spring my father had a little garden with
a few apple trees which had retired
from giving fruit;
this garden was identified as the _'Garden of Wish Fulfillment'_
often I had seen my mother and the other village women
exposing their naked bosoms, taking the soft,
dependable ******* in their hands &
rubbing them on the rocks; above all this
standing an enormous tree all bleached
under the sun, rain & cold, deprived of leaves.
This was the Holy Tree [quoted in 1942]
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I don't like that word 'finished'.
When something is finished,
that means it's dead, doesn't it?
I believe in everlastingness;
I never finish a painting – I just stop
working on it for a while.
I like painting because it's something
I can never come to the end of;
sometimes I paint a picture,
then I paint it all out. Sometimes
I'm working on fifteen or twenty
pictures at the same time; I do that
b/c I want to – b/c I change my
mind so often; The thing to do is
always to keep starting to paint;
never finishing the painting [quoted in 1948]
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
At times can be seen melting together
One into the other like a loving couple
At times drifting as a lonely wanderer
The clouds are there to imitate people
It can't move on a journey on its own
Without energy clouds are immovable
It'll stay motionless if not wind blown
Prodding to be productive like people
Some are peacocks parading with flair
Of damsels bosoms as white as marble
Putting air pompous what do I care
Show fame without shame like people
Arms ready for war it's getting warm
They gather warring forces for battle
They march whip up a thunderstorm
Rainclouds hungry for war like people
Clouds can be big cloud can be small
Can be rich prosperous can be poor
Like people accumulate only to lose all
To earn and loss and earn once more
They orbit the earth decorated the sky
Unaware of mortal affairs just rumble
Prone to fallacy or vanity as you and I
Can't help noticed clouds are like people
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 11:29 PM UTC
We loved your ample bosoms,
Dear Grandmothers,
So soft and pillow-like;
The perfect place to lay sleepy heads.
We loved your voluminous laps,
Dear Grannies,
Wrapped in yards of cotton;
The perfect place to rest teary faces.
We loved your full long dresses,
Dear mothers of our parents,
In lengths well past your knees;
The perfect place to hide a shy child.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
Your white bosoms releasing that white serum.
That curvaceous mound feeds humanity,
That makes the biggest humanity via motherhood wisdom.
Your pink ******* arousing that tempest blood.
That soft hill becoming hard,
That hardens which heightens the adulthood.
Your black ***** taming sin.
That concealed shape popping out to provoke,
That provokes to **** feminism in mean.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 12:43 AM UTC
stop
be still and listen
hear ye not
that soulful song
of endless motion
that tireless voice
of storm wracked potion
her swollen bosoms'
rising, falling
her shameless
cresting
foam flecked
devotion
pouring out
her effervescence
on lips that drink
her adoration
yet never taste
her vital essence
her drumming chorus
a roaring thunder
on rocky clefts
torn asunder
as mourning rays
of misty raining
her teardrops falling
gently tracing
our loves
our sorrows
engraved each day
on these
mortal paintings
on granite shoulders
her message beats
that pounding drum
of thunderous need
as she flings
her ageless
storm tossed beauty
onto granite arms
etched and fluted
from hollowed cheeks
her kisses pouring
as sea birds cry
on stiff winds soaring
and ever on
throughout the ages
enduring
her ravenous
inclinations
never wincing
from her brazen charms
her surging seduction's
voiceless call
immersed
within her warm caresses
glistening
in her wind tossed tresses
enfolding him
in her flowing graces
in dulcet tones
of annihilation
.
.
http://oi62.tinypic.com/vuya0.jpg
.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:—
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
3.6k
This Prince was handsome to the extreme.
He had definite movie star looks
That is if movies had been invented
back all those centuries ago.
She was the most beautiful princess
in all the kingdom.
He could not think of anything other
but to make her his bride.
So he set forth on his quest of the heart.
But when he rode up to her castle
though the haunted forest of whispers.
across the river of doom
and the desert of the dragons.
he arrived at her door
and proposed marriage to her
she said
No way!
Apparently, she hated men
and in fact, had a strong
penchant for girls herself.
Not one to dwell on the mysteries
of a woman's heart,
the prince said to himself
fucketh her.
And he turned to a life of bachelorhood.
Never ever to marry.
He bought a Harley Chopper
Dated pretty cheerleaders
and slim models with full bosoms.
And he never once caught his wife
in bed with some guy like his married friends did.
when he got home unexpectldy all was as it should be,
He took up hunting and fishing with his buddies.
raced sports cars at high speed.
spending lonely nights at ***** bars
drinking double malt whiskey
and the finest flagons of ale.
he never heard of ********
or a ******* honey-do list.
Nor did he ever get hit for
child support or alimony.
He kept his castle
and his beloved gun collection
And was as rich as blazes.
HE lived on a diet of fried food
bacon and eggs with sausages and beans
Hot chicken wings and tacos.
snacking on potato chips and gassy pop.
a diet that caused him to
blow enormous loud farts
which made him a revered legend
amongst his cronies.
who all thought he was as cool as hell.
He had loads of money in the bank
And not once in his life
did he ever put the toilet seat down.
And he lived
happily ever after
The End
Goodnight Children
all go. To sleep
Sweet dreams.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go--but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
3k
When you suckle my bosoms
I feel the love I never felt with you
As you go from one ***** to another
I moan your name sweetly as you star
Spilling your *** in me as we kiss
I note the tattoos on your whole body
It makes me desire you even more
In love (I think) with you!
When you run your finger through my hair
and the other teasting my womanhood
I want to devote my life to us but I am told
That you can not be with a woman. It saddens
Me when you say that but that you also love
Me sweetly! As I touch your face I see that you are
Crying. I want to kiss them way from your worries
And take them too. But then you say
That we can not be together anymore. And it hurts me
But I still wait for you as I still love you, then I have to run out the
Back as you continue to gambling with dice
I envied your boss and your code! I wish I was your code
How I ache for you!
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 5:53 PM UTC
132
I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine,
And summon them to drink;
Crackling with fever, they Essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass—
The lips I would have cooled, alas—
Are so superfluous Cold—
I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould—
Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak—
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake—
If, haply, any say to me
“Unto the little, unto me,”
When I at last awake.
2.8k
Who taught thee conflict with the pow’rs of night,
To vanquish satan in the fields of light?
Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,
How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!
War with each princedom, throne, and pow’r is o’er,
The scene is ended to return no more.
O could my muse thy seat on high behold,
How deckt with laurel, how enrich’d with gold!
O could she hear what praise thine harp employs,
How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!
What heav’nly grandeur should exalt her strain!
What holy raptures in her numbers reign!
To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace,
To still the tumult of life’s tossing seas,
To ease the anguish of the parents heart,
What shall my sympathizing verse impart?
Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
Where shall a sov’reign remedy be found?
Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav’nly bow’r,
And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;
The raging tempest of their grief control,
And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,
To eye the path the saint departed trod,
And trace him to the ***** of his God.
2.7k
*
*We all are LOVERz in the being of BELOVEDz
I keep your LOVE secrets
Hidden in the depth of my eyes
You place your ears on my heaving *******
Listening to your melodious heart-beats
I can't even share with anyone
The intimacy YOU share with me
NO one ever has dared, except YOU
To be brave to enter my skin pores
YOU courageous! - Even to my surprised
I surrendered to your LOVE
YOU LOVE me so much that
I want to end my life in your warm hug
The way your eyes shower LOVE on me
No one has ever seen me like YOU do
I seriously can't stand so much of LOVE
Just swallow me inside YOUR being
Your presence makes my knees go weak
With goose-humps on my skin
With butterflies in my stomach
I run to the bedroom, waiting for YOU
With your breathe touching my skin
Every time, you try to breach
My personal space and private boundaries
You sown seeds and buds bloom
From every cell of my body
Scenting fragrance all over YOU
Every pore of my body craves for YOU
Your graft branches on my soul-pot
Flowering colorful blossoms on me
YOU tease me much
Showing so much gentleness and respect
In the way you pluck each flower from my being
You turn me blood red with your foreplay
I bleed YOUR tears begging you to LOVE more
I want you to serve me
I want to tear your back with my nails
I want you to make it happen
Release me in a moment from living
From all the struggles life serves me
Where were YOU all these years?
Now you are here, never leave me!
When your breathe intertwines with mine
There is no gap in our sighs and murmurs
Till you are within me, you color me
Nature's creative palettes of LOVE
With joys, smiles and laughters of intimacy
But when you are not there
I become a whimper expressing
Dislike and unhappiness for every thing
When your roots of thoughts and being
Are not holding me firm, deeply
I die in your longing & crave for you helplessly
I want to run and come in your arms
And loose all my EGO, pride and status
I want to surrender my desired inert beauty
For you to worship me forever
Though I do not show my LOVE openly
I want to tell you this:
I will do everything during the day time
YOU ask me to do for YOU
I will do more for you during the night time
Those things we only fantasize about
I will be-witch you with my scent
I will cover you with my hair
I will embrace you like your skin
I will drench you under my showers
I will hide you under my bosoms
I will carry you within my womb
Where no one is / was / will be permitted ever
And I will release you only
When YOU grant me all my secret desires*
*
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
Thy verse is “sad” enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can’t find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I’m sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May once be read—but never after:
Yet their effect’s by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain—
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you’ll read them o’er again.
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