"expertly" poems
*she dragged me out of the house
knowing i was feeling down
not allowing me to wallow
in my self pity,
she dressed me,
painted my face
fashioned my hair,
that’s my girl friend
at Juliana’s,
small family owned Italian restaurant,
a gem of a find, she said,
Lorenzo, greeted her with familiarity
(she leaves a memorable impression)
she introduced me as her bestie
with a twinkle in her eye
young (as all under 30 people are to me)
handsome, dark thick curly haired,
with dancing eyes,
a serving towel over his left arm
nodded with a genuine smile
i smiled back despite my mood
wine was swirled, smelled,
sampled and selected
a captivating performance,
executed expertly
she watched me
watching him
describe the specials
with a melodic Italian accent
transforming my mood
garlic knots wafting with his stride,
placed on the table
with a small bowl of marinara sauce
still hovering
in his long lean fingers
it slipped,
splattering red stain
on the pristine white cloth
without skipping a beat
his eyes poured into mine
words emerged
“forgive me, your beauty made me nervous”*
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
i must give you a full physical exam
to fully grasp my prognosis and plan
of treatment for you... dont be afraid
i feel confident, no need to debate
i can satisfy
and gratify
your pre-dic-ament
in the richest succulent
as a specialist, to some degree
my healing hands work expertly
but to receive full and complete treatment
you must partake my honey rather frequent
for a better plan of action
i require a full body transfusion
a chemical mixture of center fuses
a delicate blending of our juices
this may require several procedures
over time it provides many features
healing properties of your most vital *****
however worth it, even if, it cost a fortune
to this a can guarantee success
but first you must fully undress
i work with energy transference
your help required for successful convergence
of the best possible results
between two consenting adults
bartering is certainly a viable option
for your long term medical condition
providing equal services for each other
helps maintain balance to one another
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
When I feel the thunder crashing
I imagine it's the thrashing
Of my sweet sadistic lover
Snatching me out of the covers
When I hear the storm winds howling
I imagine it's the growling
Of my lover in the night
His eyes filled with evil light
When I feel the rain drops falling
It makes my mind start recalling
Tears my lover brought to me
From pleasure and pain mixed expertly
When my lover leaves me bleeding
Fully sated but still needing
Another ***** romp with him
But next time I'm S and he's M
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised
it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******** sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
=============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 5:02 AM UTC
A series
of short puffs
from a rekindled
cigarette expertly put out
on the half
reminds you of your
fastidiousness
now you feel like **** as you look
at the wreckage site
of a desk that
is your own doing
That is what you do.
While your ego
floats like the unmelted
coffee you put in cold water
Hardly dissolvable
to anything normal
missing anything temporal
You lash out once more
waging a war
with a nation
of thoughts
You kick the furniture
to send the dust flying
That is what you do.
You attempt to sheathe
an intricate wound
patterned on your
knuckle, as detailed as the
dystopia of your
own human agenda that
can be trivialized by just
"I haven't been myself lately"
when somebody asks
because you're afraid
they might see
you find it
hard
to
belong
Slowly, the dust resorts to settle
on the bedroom floor
And so do you.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm
Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest
The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors
His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat
Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight
**
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
Angel Hair Pasta
****** Oil encased
Oregano, Basil & Thyme
Fragrance ascend
Blonde strands flyway
Garlic Shards dancing
Swim in the wind
Pulsing Beef Stake
Red River Flowing
Seeds flooding
Tightly-wadded
Expertly wound
Atop her head
Wasp-hive
Angel Hair pasta
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
Almost every day,
I am fake.
Not in my beliefs,
or my personality,
or even my body.
My emotions are fake.
The ones that I choose to display, that is.
Or, I should say, the mask that I choose to wear.
A mask?
What does my mask look like?
Well, it looks something like this.
Strong. Happy. Confident. Independent.
In control. Smiling. Lighthearted.
Life is good.
No one would guess that all of this is fake.
And do you want to know the
thing that I wish most
for people to do?
I wish that they would see behind
the mask.
I wish there was someone who can
see my true feelings.
**Who can see the depression in my smile.
The anger in my silence.
The weakness in my confidence.
The frailty in my strength.
The need in my independence.**
I need someone who can not only
see these things,
but is willing to talk to me about it.
Whose willing to not just
watch me wilt away
and force myself
to struggle on my own.
I need someone who will slap
me in the face and tell me that
*I am not alone.
I don't have to fight this by myself.
I don't need to hide.*
But,
there is no one like that.
Not for me.
All that people see is
the happy, benevolent girl who
always smiles at everyone she sees.
I need someone who can
see the expertly concealed anguish
behind the constant, cheerful mask.
I need someone to rip that smile away and show me that I don't have to hide.
Yet,
I fear for that person to come.
I desperately need my mask to stay in place.
I can't let people down.
I can't let down their expectations.
I can't show them that I really am not happy.
I can't disappoint them.
And so, I desperately wish no one
will see behind my mask.
It's a paradox.
I need someone to see
yet I fear for my life
if they do see.
I wish my mask would burn in
Hell.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
In a world of goblins, orcs and the likes there lived a hero. This hero was a person of peasant blood and a friend to the weak. Every day the people of his little village would go to him for help. The hero would never turn them away, and always solved their problems. However, the day came for them to ask of a task too large. The hero was sent out to fight a battalion of goblins, orcs and trolls. This battalion was well known for being the most ruthless and devastating in all the land. Everywhere they went they left a trail of destruction and despair. But the hero being bound by honor went to confront them head on. He sliced through the goblins with his expertly crafted sword. He pierce the flesh of the orcs with the precise shots of his bow. It was truly a sight to see, one man taking on an army. But much to the villagers dismay, by the time he got to the trolls, his quiver was empty and his sword had broke. He still took them on with his bare fists. As if possessed by a beast, the hero tore through lines of the battalion slaughtering all in his path. None stood a chance until he reached the one who lead the battalion of death. Without saying a word, the hero grabbed the leader by the neck and lifted him off the ground. Squirming in his iron grip, the leader begged and pleaded for his life to be spared. The hero contemplated this for a time but the leader had tricked him, he pulled his dagger from his sleeve and stabbed the hero. The hero succeeded in saving the village that day, and that's why we're left with you. The son of a hero who gave his own life to save his people. The fate of the village left in the gauntlets of his son prodigy. there's only one problem with that: you don't know how to be a hero. You can't fight, in fact, you can barely pick up a sword. The mere chance that you would've failed to get even one of your fathers traits is amazing. With you being the best "hero" we've got left, you're being sent to a larger city to train. The shining city of Miridas, a cultural capitol and center of innovation. There you will me the man who will cultivate your potential and temper your skills. That is, if you have any skills. You leave tomorrow at dawn, to start your new life.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/
©2018
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:00 AM UTC
So this is as it was, the old wound still itches
Glimpses of your face and my heart still twitches
If time heals all wounds then what am I to do
When my life has been frozen
Since last I saw
You soften your eyes as they flickered to mine
Skirted the contact then burned deep inside
Gritting my teeth in the pleasurable pain
A razor machete in welcome invasion
Expertly wielded through my jungle of thoughts
Clearing a path and discovering
My soul lost in
Your damp forest of evergreen trees
Rooting my soil and growing up through me
Bringing fresh life to my stagnant dirt
Oxygenating the air of my earth
Reversing pollution, reviving, refreshing,
Regressing the growth of the thorns in my flesh and
Cutting the cancer that
I might live,
Leaving your legacy scars.
So this is as it was, the wound still itches
Glimpses of your hand and my heart still twitches
If time heals all then what can I do
Since my death was frozen
When last I felt you.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
The smoke tasted like Christmas as it sank into her lungs. She swirled her tongue expertly inside of her mouth playing with the simple taste of holiday and pine. It was the first time that she had felt the effects of the herb in a couple of months and she would savor every second. Virginia watched on as the joint rolled with two extra large pieces of raw organic rolling papers burned in the slow drawl the way a Cuban cigar burns. Her lungs filled with the smoke and she continued to breathe in causing her ******* to expand further out word. A smile came onto her face as her lips parted carefully holding the smoke still in her lungs and not let any escaping. She leaned forward and opened her mouth more as if she were going in for a passionate kiss and locked lips with the man in front of her but did not close her mouth for a kiss. She blew the smoke from her lungs into the man's mouth causing his lungs and chest to expand and fill with the smoke. When Virginia's lungs and ******* had finally sank back to their normal ample capacity she and Nicholas closed their lips for a soft short kiss before pulling their faces away from one another. Nicholas held the smoke in until he needed to breathe again and blew the smoke out of his nostrils. "Shotgunning is by far one of my favorite ways to smoke" Virginia crooned in her sharp Romanian accent. Nicholas did not say anything back but grabbed the joint and inhaled and filled his lungs to their capacity and leaned inward to return the shotgun blast. When the ritual was over they did not remove their lips from each others lips after the first soft kiss. Instead they continued to kiss first with small ones that were soft and barely felt. They moved onto a heavier more passionate kiss and the smoke in Virginia's lungs began to come out and bury both her and Nicholas's faces in the smoke. Both she and him inhaled while kissing more wildly feeling the smoke recirculating between the two of them. The kisses were rough in a lustful way and were accompanied with small sharp bites on the lower lips. The smoke had began to die down and Nicholas leaned back away from Virginia's still eager lips and said "If I ever **** myself with a shotgun, it will be that kind of shotgun."
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
She took a slice of a rice paper
Hold it delicately ... careful not to break it
Expertly placed it on a plate..
Mixed the fresh salad, some noodles and shrimps
Nervously rolled it one by one, though...
All eyes are on her.. All ears are on her
She and her famous Rice paper ...the subject of attention..
... the rolls she promoted..
A traditional cuisine, a local pride
She dipped the rolls in some kind of fish sauce
Shyly she offered the delicacies to us..
We .. the so called “International people” were amused
this tantalizing Vietnamese cuisine..
Specially made in Vietnam.. only in Vietnam..
Rice paper rolls.. repeat the demonstration
Wet it with water..
Choose your favourite fillings... roll it and roll it..
Its done.. Its ready.. its super unique...
Fish sauce.. fish oil and dip one... dip another
one by one.. so sensational taste..
Looking so plain never you doubt the taste
Superdelicious!!
Yummy the Vietnamese Rice paper..
Only in Vietnam..
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
In the Presidential Palace, the steaks are served up seared.
There’s an excellent wine cellar for meals expertly prepared.
The Palace is cool in summer; in winter it's toasty warm,
And Maduro and his spouse are always safe and free from harm.
In the streets of Venezuela there is anger and despair.
Inflation is the problem but why should Maduro care.
The store shelves are nearly empty; most people live in fear
There is ****** done in daylight and the sense that chaos nears.
This was once a beautiful, Prosperous land, the envy of the South.
Then a populist Socialist came to drive investors out.
Now a nation, resource rich, has been importing oil,
a nation whose own oil reserves are the greatest in the world.
His critics?- dead or imprisoned; the media is controlled
There’s no term limits on his rule. Voters do as they are told.
Demonstrators, even peaceful, can be shot down in the street
While Maduro sips his wine and decides what next he’ll have to eat.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
Scattered bits of cloth, scraps, and remnants
Some new, others stained, tattered, faded, forgotten
Small and expansive, of cheap thread and the finest silks, colors of the soul
Heaped by turmoil, chaos by circumstance, abandoned by change.
Yet all precious and pure
The story behind, the memory within
The purpose, the character, the comfort, the terror
Wanting order, remembrance, inclusion, reason
Searching for meaning.
The Maker prepares the frame. The backing is laid. Batting for comfort.
Expertly sown together with the finest threads.
Threads of love. Threads of strength. Threads of hope. Threads of forgiveness.
Each piece a hand on is needed. Each piece trusted to hold the next.
Working in harmony yet identity preserved. Purpose.
The Maker builds and the edges grow.
More pieces found behind closed doors. The dark areas reveal their treasures.
All have a home. All are part. All are welcome.
Together a cherished masterpiece.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
take off your shell, wash off the dirt that is layered upon your skin
come out of the cave, show us what’s within
the expertly built walls that surround your lake of life
you can’t keep swimming away all your life
reclusive exclusive beach ***
elusive and ruined pretty creature
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC
I pull you out
Smoothing your creases
Lying you flat so I can
Fill you with
A sweet mixture of guilt
And poison
There's artistry in my fingers
As I roll you expertly
From years of practice
Along your length
Into the shape I desire
I lick your edges
Firmly sealing you with a feather like touch
I place you lovingly between
My lips
Flicking the flame
That will bring you to life
I draw you deep into my mouth
Relishing the burn as you travel down
My throat
Into my lungs
Where with each puff
You
****
me
Slowly
(C) Pixievic 2016
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Almost naked except
A dangling Marlboro cigarette
Expertly stroking his lover
Fingers caress a slender body
Methodically engulfing aroma
The sweet smell of ***
Swollen lips surround
Waves of rapture quiver
Eyelashes and eyeballs flutter
Sinking into oblivion
Head bobbing like a pendulum
Savoring lingering lust
Inhaling smoke languidly
******* every undying toxin
Heather Mirassou
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 8:19 PM UTC
Foster child of silence
What did you say?
You were always instructed to smile
It was a woman’s way
Your smile is corrugated
You eyes sheathed in despair
You yearn for a rush of happiness
You wear your masks expertly
Until your hidden emotions bleed
You pace and pray to make them go away
But you cannot stay sane in this facade
White padded walls embrace you
Until your soul is cut in two
You finally speak
But no one listens to you
No light on the horizon
Only darkness that ties you down
You don nakedness
You plant your feet in a potted tree
Hoping to go back to a place, safe and serene
Instead on the cusp of losing your mind
You hear voices calling out
Telling you that they love you
You look all around for them
But remain alone in the padded room
Your mental illness you cannot control
It is the monster in your heart that wants to let go
You gather your strength above no other
To put another mask of sanity on your face
You play your facade expertly
And you are released for a time
Until you become a danger to yourself or others again
Where is your gratitude?
Just for today
You have been given multiple chances
Of a second chance at life
Remove the lock and key from your soul
Seek help and slowly let the pain come
Don’t let it drown you
Some memories have been taken away by God
Other’s have endured with his assistance
But what is wisdom and life without trial
Begin to forgive and begin to heal
Let the dragons come head on
With your family by your side
You are not alone
Speak your voice or ink your pen
But do not be a victim
To the demons inside
Take off your running shoes
Go barefoot in earth’s paradise
Walk to the ends of the Earth
And God will kiss your blisters away
You will no longer be despondent
No longer suffocating in your silence
You will remain on the path to freedom
Break from the constant
Begin to live again
Free yourself
Find the courage and the voice
To say goodbye to the old demons
The harmony in your heart is your life giving force
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
What is it about a woman’s naked body
that is so beautiful to me?
there is nothing complex about it
it could be described simply
nearly uniform in color
with soft curves and small dips
light shadows emphasizing
her beauty
and tan lines
showing if she is expertly ****
or lack there of
showing delicate new nudeness
muscles showing determination
or fat showing satisfaction
and the look upon her face
that says she is proud of what she has
or a curve in her back
that shows she knows what she’s got
I could see a thousand naked ladies
and still want to see a thousand more
do that with anything else
and I’d become sick of it
there is one simple thing
that has to be fulfilled
They have to be naked
stripped of clothing, makeup,
and shyness
because those takes away from the natural beauty
yet
the most beautiful part about
any woman
is knowing that she is happy
with her own naked body
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
A wordsmith sits patently
Sharpening and refining his tools.
He listens and he waits
For the deadly moment,
Knowing exactly when to strike.
He unsheathes his sword,
Pointing expertly towards his prey.
Words of shining steel
Slice through the air
Landing with intent,
Cutting with precision,
Twisting with malice,
Into this bleeding heart
Of mine.
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 6:21 AM UTC
My sister Annick fixed me, locked me in, with cold, blue eyes as she sat down slowly next to me at the table. “I’m a surgeon,” she said, not quite casually, “a board certified surgeon.”
I give her a questioning look.
“I could take your steak knife,” she says, eyeing it, “plunge it into your neck - and oh, sure, there’d be a question or two but in the end - I’d walk away clean.”
“I don’t think,” I start saying…
Tears well to near overflowing in her turquoise eyes. “I came in - officer” she says, sounding stunned and surreal. “She was having a convulsion, she exhibited severe cyanosis, I couldn’t clear her airway, it was a classic tonic-clonic seizure.” she goes on, her voice rising to near panic with the diagnosis.
“You’d never…” I start to interrupt but she gently covers my mouth with her left hand while gathering the handle of the serrated silver steak knife, expertly, into her right hand.
“I attempted to perform a tracheostomy,” she continues in a traumatized but professional voice. “but as I began a transverse incision above the sternal notch,” a tear rolls down her cheek, “Anais suffered a severe generalized-onset seizure and convulsed, forcefully into the knife”
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” I confess suddenly, as if under oath, in court.
There’s a moment of still silence.
“And WHEN,” she asked, wiping away the tear and turning the knife for a downward ****** “Were you going to MENTION IT?!”
“NOW! - before dinner!” I look around the empty room - for help - for a sympathetic jury. “It was an ACCIDENT! - I’m SORRRRYYYY!” I plead.
My sister slowly sets down the knife and says deliberately, purposefully - like a death sentence: “My Valentino sheer floral-lace top is STAINED.”
”I can FIX it!” I insist in a rush.
“Keep OUT of my room - and my stuff.” she grumbles, “And REMEMBER what I said,” she adds as she pats the knife before getting up and leaving the room.
“I WILL’” I promise to her back.
A second later, my mom sweeps in from the opposite direction.
“What’s up” she asks.
“Nothing” I almost whisper, head down.
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 10:04 AM UTC
It don't take much to make me happy
'Cause I'm from the south
I just need some good soul food
To cram into my mouth
Or I can sit on the creek bank
With my best fishing pole
Casting my line expertly
Into my secret fishing hole
A moonlit hike into the woods
Will soothe my achin' soul
Them city folks don't understand
It's better than silver or gold
When Sunday rolls around it's time
To get myself dressed up
The laying of hands and speaking in tongues
Will come if the Spirit moves us
There's a glamour to the south
Like a work of art that's living
Even the poorest of the poor
Open their hearts and are giving
So call me a redneck or a hick
It doesn't matter to me
I'm proud to be a southern girl
There's no place I'd rather be
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC