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pk tunuri Mar 4
She said She doesn't wanna talk
I waited for her to look back

I tried convincing her
She showed me her middle finger

I only ask you not to go blind on hatred
Be kind though we got parted
We all have misunderstandings, different opinions which leads to hatred. Be kind to everyone even if you hate them.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Bring me my palette board.
Bring me my paintbrush.
Look wide open, ask me not
if it’s full or a half glass.
The sea is babbling high,
The clouds swimming on the go.
Reach out to the sky!

Be quick, before a raindrop
spills off the rainbow bowl,
stirs the dew on the rosebud
at first sight of the
spring blooming fast.

So what if the sky won't
lend a blue patch away,
catch that close by,
slips through the fingers:
a pair of butterflies.
Does it matter if you say yes or no?
A piece of heaven is on earth!
Oh sickly poisonous flame
Darting back and forth
I hear you call my name
It's not what they think, for what it's worth

One slip of the finger
And a tingling sensation
Smells of gas linger
Now for use of personification:

Its seems that you love me
For you never let me go
I feel pitiful in your embrace
And it seems that you know

You always take control
And oh how I'm fascinated by your flame
Skin swells and pain holds
In this endless torture game
Ashley Jul 19
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but I have already masturbated twice,
thinking of us:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we jerk into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other:
my mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
Fuck!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched penis,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tendernessness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful bone china face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ejaculate over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain semen on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we fuck,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting,
making me pop,
plying my cock in your palm;
running over my nethers a curved finger.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying fucked,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the fucking comic at me,
will you?
Fucking beat my flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your naked pearly glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a fucking puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my cock into your cunt -
where I love it best.
Mortality is the closing fate
promised by the watching gods
for those mortals on the face
of a world all will escape
sad casualty of many fates
each with the same end result
taking all from the souls
arrayed at the finish line

finality that none shall avoid
hence my focus on the now
taking arms to make a mark
not play the martyr in response
by a pen or the sword
drawing blood in last resort
fighting back against the dusk
while the sun is lost from sight

stones reside on the hill
some exclaim the consequence
of laying down before the end
already placed in victimhood
look to the others that inspire
beneath the stones their arms are thrust
a middle finger to the sky
still the warriors as in life.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180817.
The poem “Middle Finger” was inspired by the lines “I am not only a casualty / I am also a warrior” found in the book  "I Am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished writings of Audre Lorde (1985)"
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
It’s still hanging low
since the moon
came down so close.

The seven seas dance
beneath her polished feet
but could never touch it.

Then the intact moon,
in fact, once did unleash
only when one popped
out ahead of the rest.
Down from earth
luminary Muhammad
Peace be upon him
pointed his finger towards it.
And into two halves
did the Moon split!

But the man wouldn’t touch it
remained with us all
with every human the Moon dwarfs!
Commemorating the birthday of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). One of his miracles was that he split the moon after the pagan Makkhans asked for a miracle.
KitaRaizal Mar 2013
Blood Red Nails,
On her finger tips,
Blade,
Dark as Onyx,
Fear,
Bright As Day,
Pain,
Dark as Night,
Soft Cuts,
Across her belly,
Soft,
Color,
Springs to the surface,
Finger tips,
Soft
As
White.

-Summer-Skye-
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