"milkish" poems - Hello Poetry

You are tea, serene in your surroundings. I am coffee, attention always bounding. Your colour a milkish pale, creamy optimism. I am taken black, bitter cynicism. Two sugars, to match your disposition. None for me, I'll maintain my grim affliction. We differ so much, it's obscene. But in the end we're both caffeine.

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May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC

firemind

Caffeine

You are tea, serene in your surroundings. I am coffee, attention always bounding. Your colour a milkish pale, creamy optimism. I am taken black, bitter cynicism. Two sugars, to match your disposition. None for me, I'll maintain my grim affliction. We differ so much, it's obscene. But in the end we're both caffeine.

16

You are tea, serene in your surroundings. I am coffee, attention always bounding. Your colour milkish pale, creamy optimism. I am taken black, bitter cynicism. Two sugars, to match your disposition. None for me, I'll maintain my grim affliction. We differ so much, it's obscene. But in the end we're both caffeine.

0

Apr 13, 2020

Apr 13, 2020 at 10:24 AM UTC

firemind

Caffeine

You are tea, serene in your surroundings. I am coffee, attention always bounding. Your colour milkish pale, creamy optimism. I am taken black, bitter cynicism. Two sugars, to match your disposition. None for me, I'll maintain my grim affliction. We differ so much, it's obscene. But in the end we're both caffeine.

16

enthralled, you got me in a reverie about your doll eyes alike the stars that shines from a far cosmic galaxy. love, you’re a pulchritudinous nebula. almost failed to respire while keeping our eyes fixated. you’re my blanket, my comfort through this storm. as the sun kissed goodbye to the cerulean sea, the whispers of the waves shift ‘neath your feet. in a cold breeze, it felt unusually warm, similar to a milkish pale, creamy optimism latte. you’re fond of fireflies falling into your palms, like a fairy dust in a fantasy. fallen flowers amid abysmal situation, a frantic feeling fades away instantly. my Allie, i’ll be your Noah who stares and loves you endlessly. grateful to be lost in your smile, will always hold your hand till eternity.

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May 4, 2021

May 4, 2021 at 8:56 AM UTC

blaire

so this is what it feels like to be in love...

enthralled, you got me in a reverie about your doll eyes alike the stars that shines from a far cosmic galaxy. love, you’re a pulchritudinous nebula. almost failed to respire while keeping our eyes fixated. you’re my blanket, my comfort through this storm. as the sun kissed goodbye to the cerulean sea, the whispers of the waves shift ‘neath your feet. in a cold breeze, it felt unusually warm, similar to a milkish pale, creamy optimism latte. you’re fond of fireflies falling into your palms, like a fairy dust in a fantasy. fallen flowers amid abysmal situation, a frantic feeling fades away instantly. my Allie, i’ll be your Noah who stares and loves you endlessly. grateful to be lost in your smile, will always hold your hand till eternity.

20

The mulberry tree is night-ripe, its fruit fermenting almost before dripping down the branch to the gray-saddled sidewalk, where birds refuse it; the sharpened tang slips and spreads into the green closeness. Char-wings spread out above me, interrupted by static bursts of cloud that stream from a southern vagueness; the waxed crescent moon-blossom spits a little of its milkish shine towards me in the black heat. The lance-lights of the streetlamps snap on, lidless and yellowed, venting that yellow down into the wet cut yards. Everything is quiet, empty; in a cardboard box by my side is her sketchbook, our locket, her old phone. I look through the glass at the blue cape that drapes the sandy castle across the street, watching as sleep comes for me, mincing through hillside pines.

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Jun 15, 2021

Jun 15, 2021 at 8:45 PM UTC

EvanS

Night Descending

The mulberry tree is night-ripe, its fruit fermenting almost before dripping down the branch to the gray-saddled sidewalk, where birds refuse it; the sharpened tang slips and spreads into the green closeness. Char-wings spread out above me, interrupted by static bursts of cloud that stream from a southern vagueness; the waxed crescent moon-blossom spits a little of its milkish shine towards me in the black heat. The lance-lights of the streetlamps snap on, lidless and yellowed, venting that yellow down into the wet cut yards. Everything is quiet, empty; in a cardboard box by my side is her sketchbook, our locket, her old phone. I look through the glass at the blue cape that drapes the sandy castle across the street, watching as sleep comes for me, mincing through hillside pines.

23