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amanda Jul 2018
love is not made of giving and taking in equal parts
it is not a favor for a favor
i owe you nothing

love is not a compromise reached after long deliberation
it is not hurting on Monday
and healing on Tuesday

love is not touching because you will leave if i do not
it is not feigning naivety
when you see me cry

love is not the untimely squandering of innocence
it is not the suffocating grip of guilt
it is not your unwelcome touch

love is not
love is not
love is not
I'm dragging a mountain
                                        down with me,
To those depths and
                                                       below this sea.
unidentified Aug 2016
Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here

Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced

Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,  
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls                            

A song of honeyed bees'  sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose

Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs

Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace

A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume

For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste

What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold

These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,  
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose  

The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart

Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose

Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
If only now in dreams of yore
a sky full of stars shine brighter,
a garden of flowers fragrance more pungent,
and songbirds in your garden from yesteryear
sing tantalizingly more beautiful ...,
when you were near

Tanay Sengupta Oct 2018
They were young and in love.
They didn't know, what it was
All a game of push and shove.

Smoking up and gazing at the stars above.
Without any reason, or any cause
They were young and in love.

Black dress and a leathered glove.
That one night, inside the bus
All a game of push and shove.

Like a pair of doves.
Always sticking together, because
They were young and in love.

Maybe in their naivety, they knew love.
Maybe it was better when it was
All a game of push and shove.

Maybe the river of lust flows to the ocean of love.
To them, it didn't matter, what it was
They were young and in love.
All a game of push and shove.

Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
I am often accused of not writing anything naughty. So, I thought of giving it a try. Happy reading!
Marina Kay Oct 2018
I was 20 years old,
Walking down the road.
You stopped me in my tracks
To say hello.
I said it back because what's the harm?
From that moment on,
I was a victim to your charm.
You called me pretty
And reached out to hold me,
That alone should have sent me running.
You refused to let me leave,
Until you had a way of contacting me.
Gripping on to my sleeve,
I did what you asked of me.
I wasn't scared
When I should've been.
I was taught to think
That was romantic of him.
If I could turn back,
I would untell myself that.
Shed light on my naivety,
perhaps protect my virginity,
From a 35 year old man
With an abominable plan.
Yes I was of legal age
But here's the common sense,
It still gave you no right
To rob me of my innocence.
Convinced we were friends
And I would always be safe
I let my guard down
Oh god, what a mistake.
You kept wanting to meet late at night.
In your car, in a park,
Anywhere out of sight.
I always felt compelled
During those meetings of ours.
Never like my own self
In those early morning hours.
The first time you laid hands on me
Was when I called and needed company.
Vulnerable and upset,
I needed a friend.
A shoulder to cry on,
A possible distraction,
A devil-sent ravisher
Was not what I asked for.
I was not in control.
I kept coming back for more.
The night you finally ****** me
Is my reoccurring nightmare.
A force and ****** feature,
The end of an affair.
I can't leave it in the past.
You left me aghast.
I want to tear off my skin
And rid myself of your sin.
It's been a couple of months,
Still I can't bear to be clutched,
Until now, I've kept my mouth shut
About the night I was touched.
I'm trying to heal.
Deb Jones Jan 4
When I was a child

Some of the most judgmental and unkind People I ever met were on church pews
Every Sunday with a Hymnal
And a Bible in their hands

I didn’t know how some people
Were able to disassociate their own Shortcomings and cruelty
From their religious
Obligations and convictions
But many were able to do just that

But as a child I couldn’t reconcile
The child abusers
The pedophiles
The rapists
The drug traffickers
The thieves
The alcoholics
The cheaters
The liars

From the people that stood at the pulpits.
The ones I was told to emulate.
The minister
The reverends
The deacons

The word minister embodies
Loving protection

The word reverend invokes
Reverence and inspiration

Doesn’t it?

I was a young adult
Before I realized
Church is for sinners
By that time organized religion
For me?
Was black and soiled.

Here I am now.
I fling mantras out into the world
Of love, hope, compassion,
Good health

I recently walked into
A cathedral in Ireland and cried.
I felt the weight of time and
Countless generations of believers.

Working in the medical field
And specializing in pediatrics
Holding a one pound baby
In my hands
Months before even
The parents were allowed to touch them
I sincerely believe in miracles
I see them almost every day

My church is in my head
Buddhism is in my heart
And in the actions of my hands
The words in my mouth
What my ears hear
The soothing of my soul

The meals I help serve the homeless
The blankets I spread on their cots

I bow my head and listen to prayers
Wherever they are offered
I quietly whisper
My wishes
Into an unknown ear  

I don’t judge many people anymore
My childhood is past
I learned valuable lessons
And peace is mind at last

That doesn’t mean I trust
Easily or broadly
It just means I am an adult
And am responsible

There is some good
In almost everyone
I don’t say that out of naivety
I have danced with monsters

But that’s another tale...
Renee Danielle Aug 2016
if the eyes are the windows to the soul,
then dress them up nicely.
keep all of the anger
threatening to pour from you
behind a locked mouth.
nobody asks the person living
in a well kept home if she is okay.

wear every apology like a thorn.
let them stare at the resentment
that blossoms from those roots,
and let a garden grow from each puncture.
they'll let you talk about your pain
if you disguise it in flowery metaphors.

love is the wide eyed child
that beckons you to this address.
forgiveness is the 12 year old girl
dusting off his promises to change.
you have outgrown these faces,
but you still put them on
because naivety has more to offer.
ryn Aug 2014
There are many different masks that adorn my wall
Always at the ready for such time they would be needed
Each one of them summoned to answer a specific call
Each one of them used so that the truth can't be uncovered

With time and wear these masks grow all the more necessary
They protect me from situations that render me vulnerable
Kept contained all the emotions that I wish to bury
Kept in check all of my thoughts so I stay capable

I've had these masks for as long as I can remember
Afraid if they have begun to redefine the true me
They assume their roles seamlessly as if it's second nature
Their roles they would assume without fail, ever so diligently

But as much as they would protect from my own naivety
They also would protect others from the words that I wield
These poison-laden words fueled by my poor misguided sanity
Could easily stab and wound if not for the masks that shield

Often wondered these masks if I've ever taken them off
And function as is without hiding behind bolted doors
Would I be able to walk the line without temptation to scoff
Will I be compassionate yet honest; without causing new-found sores

Such a tough questions to which the answers I know not
Despite having pondered till my head grew sore and weary
Something I should have done before delving in deep thought
Is to now remove the mask that my face does carry
Caro Sep 2018
Sometimes I miss the holy grace of ignorance,
Sometimes I miss the comfort that I felt when I read about David and his caves,
About his moody eyes and his harp,
About his *** addiction and his soft, musical heart that only a god could love,
About the way he loved with abandon, taken aback in naivety, balking at those who disagreed with his unwavering need to be as he was

David made me ***
David made me feel closer to God and my mother
David told me a story of lust and ****** and protection and angst and a sweet tortured easily patronized self

Maybe in all of this, one day this flawed, beautiful man who murdered a giant and sang to lambs

Would be me

A woman, self possessed, soothing sheep and culling sleep in her victims.
Passion dripping from her honey harp.

David, thank you for the awakening and for the saturated hedonism that you spoke to in me.
Gemma Apr 2018
"I've come to realisation "...
I don't have the proof to prove I'm speaking the truth .
The thing is I usually deny my feelings,
It happens on a regular basis ,
Thinking about it I genuinely hate it.
It shows: my naivety , my stupidity but worst of all my insanity-
being this unconfident was never really the plan for me .
Rewind back a couple years you'll remember a cheerful girl with her head in the clouds !
But look at me now,
constantly labelling my own nature ,
not realising at all but avoiding made up danger .
Skaidrum Nov 2016
"Quiet are your affections this hour,
as sun~fire courts moonlight"

I've sown gardens of stars
on your chest with my lips,
watched as peach-colored sunrises on
your shoulder blades dissolve before me,
and traced the ladder to heaven
along the sky of your spine
with my tongue.

You drank silver from my skin
like it was holy water, and you told me
that my body was like a godless church,
holy for no reason other than itself.

you told me I was beautiful,
so many times

This uncharted territory, porcelain to the touch;
we are blood in water in love, serenading the
angels that are intoxicated with our naivety;
Our bodies eclipsed and your hands find
the flecked gold that leans too heavy on one side,
and you placed all of the diamonds
back into my bones without

Whenever you kissed me
I knew love by all of its names
in all of it's tongues of flowers and coasts
and we drink up this disease knowing that
the only cure is each other.

another heart's jealousy is a carcass in the ashtray,
and I have seen this hatred before;
I know that some ghosts prefer not to be woken;

Find fossils of heartbreaks
in the fountain of doves,
because if you searched her heart you'll find
empty hallways begging to be filled with
your sunlight.

As you are spellbound with
blue ponds of smoke and dynamite eyes
you reminded me once more,
I am a museum.

The darkness will feed upon his luna,
so the sun wishes to marry his lover,
~so look at me~

The moonlight is merely sunlight in a white dress
The scent of rain haunts me.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
carminayasmin Nov 2018
leave it like this
sign a name then scribble it from existing;
Blood was shed and blindness almost enshrouded in the making,
the blank ink reminds me of the feeling
With this pen and I swam in lyrics that I tried to climb into, they never seemed to fit - lose weight. ok,
and sweet dreams I injected like heroine into my head; yes they had done the worst to me but alas, that’s addiction:
one never fears the desire because the greed is fuelled in return with the buzz (hope,worth,purpose?something/one).
Gambling; waste my wealths (worth,time) upon it to only taste failure before me each time, but always return slowly because “a time will come” - to win; I haven’t yet.
do you wish that sometimes they told you dont give up, without  “don’t”?

slap reality across your right cheek that  burns red in naivety.
19 November
Gangothrii Jul 2018
He struggles and ponders,
reads and re-reads,
My markers fail before his eyes,
his naivety takes over,
A fruit? he queries,
I burst out in laughter,
Can be, I agree, but I await for more,
he peruses and my ribs tickled,
amused and curious, I stayed,
at his innocence that shined.
A Mango! he exclaims!
No! I equally enthused

'A woman, a fruit,
delicious and mystical,
for a man who craves'.

'Oh'  the meek sigh, a tiny sound,
concurred or dissent, I know not,
In a flash came a verbal rebuff,
back to his annoying self.

He annoys and appeases,
A friend I have known for years,
Mine forever, I know for sure,
no matter what he says.
This is for my dearest friend, Andy, who just read my poem "Alluring..Her"  and thought it is about a fruit. I promised my next is on him, and I take those seriously (my promises, not him) :)
looking towards tomorrow
a stillness might i find
a hope in solace I borrow
from the restless hands of time
yet the present moment beckons
tears the lids apart my eyes
grasping for the seconds
so quickly passing by
its voice vibrates the timber
its stare could cut through bone
ensuring I remember
it scars these words in stone:

                    "what hope
                      in dreams
                     steep slopes
                    swift streams
                  between fingers
                         it flees
                     yet lingers
                        in thee?"

mysterious and shrouded
the speech of the present cuts
warning the pursuit i've touted
isn't really worth that much
for tomorrow is uncertain
to no man shall it commit
what lurks behind dawn's curtain
leaves no choice but to submit
yet bound to persistent naivety
the future and I shall elope
like plucking fruit from a plastic tree
is my endless weening hope
"Like plucking fruit from a plastic tree is    
               my endless weening hope"
Yep. That about sums it up.
Clelia Albano Oct 2018
The will o' the wisp is
displayed on the screen of
conventions. There are those
who pretend to decipher it;
by borrowing philosophical speculations from the great
thinkers, they formulate a
critical reading, justifying the
poverty of the lexicon.
They dare to do so.
On the other hand there is
Poetry, sat on a bench
in a park somewhere, on a
rock nearby the ocean, on
an old chair in a remote room
without any other furniture,
on the pillow made with papers
of a clochard,
on the cover of an unabridged
book nobody wants.
On the trembling hand of a
young lover who picks flowers
for her, that remain forever
between the pages of a diary.
Poetry is in the multiplicity of life,
in the thousands layers, either
red or grey, that compound the
variety of the existence. It can't
escape feelings, love, roses,
tears, grief, graveyards and
gardens. And, even when it turns
to be redundant with naivety, it
keeps the greatness of its end
which is nothing else but itself.
A deep inspiration caught me as I learned that today, in the UK, is the National Poetry Day, something I would like to experience. I've written this poem dedicated to Poetry and to those who today celebrate it!
Willie May 22
Look through the eyes of a child
see only pure things
See only the innocence
not what evil brings

Wonder as a child
about the future not the past
faded memories do not concern you
they have all passed

Seek those who make you smile
Make others smile too
Seek happiness for others
And they will bring you theirs too

Never lose the sparkle
of childlike innocence
of naivety and wonder
as I have
Waste my time,
Warp my mind.
Fake your death,
Hold your breath.
Selfish being,
You can’t redeem.
I hate you, so hate me too.
Do we agree?
It’s you, not me.
You should go,
And go alone.
Without you,
I’ll be brand new.
So long you say -
Until another day.
But you’ll be back,
That’s my fact.
Then the punch line,
For a thousandth time,
You still don’t see?
Bless naivety!
You can’t go this alone,
For I am your very own.
It’s just you and me -
until the end.
Welcome back,
My only friend.
It hurts in waves
   the breaking of 'us'
You took something beautiful
now watch it rust

adorned in our tears or maybe just mine
  You’ve gained freedom, I’ve gained time

I let you in,
Then watched you leave
      Hoping with childlike naivety
You’d change your mind and come back to me

Your ‘necessary’ step is abandonment,
It tastes bitter, but I guess
suitable company for the ache in my chest

My heart protests, while my mind cannot
logic is useful, feelings are not
    I’ve asked my questions, you’ve said your piece
I hope our departure grants you relief
I remember vividly,
The days of my tender immaturity,
That complemented an air of naivety I had.
But now I have learnt,
How to maintain a reticent manner,
An agreeable countenance,
And an unceasing anesthesia.

I have tamed my heart not to beat fast at the sight of you,
But it still needs practice.
It needs practice because it has never known how to face its fears calmly.
So, it remains hidden right here in my chest,
Eavesdropping on you.

I have taught the sinews of my wrinkled lips to smile freely.
I have taught them to smile freely because sorrow chokes me.
Sorrow chokes me because I cannot resist the thoughts of your indifference,
Running wildly down the nerves into each sombre inch of my skin,
And every inch of my skin mutilating itself,
Tattooing your name,
A little inspiration from Sabrina Benaim.
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