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"perspiration" poems
The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for regulations unconsciously transpiring within the organs and the glands of the body. Such as: urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and lacrimation (noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin. from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’). It’s why I cry even when I don’t want to. You are the parasympathetic nervous system. The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system is responsible for the mobilization of the fight-or-flight response and constantly maintaining homeostasis within the body. It acts rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and the necessary and critical ability to suddenly escape on pulsing legs or cling to survival through brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles and dilated pupils. It’s why you live even when you don’t want to. I am the sympathetic nervous system. The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems are two of three essential nervous systems which compose the autonomic nervous system (a part of the peripheral nervous system) that manages involuntary functions of the body. Such as: swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and heart rate (noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’. usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you). Individually these two systems oppose but compliment each other like our hands do— pressed together and omitting equal force; veins meeting at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise. You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to breath, love, sweat, and live. I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you but grudgingly willing to fight you and ready to leave. From the deepest lower half of my brainstem and from every nerve in my cycling body, I’m sorry. From all of my chromaffin cells and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian, I am sorry.
0
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
melsml
don't ask me what a submandibular ganglian is because i won't know (a biologically correct love letter)
The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for regulations unconsciously transpiring within the organs and the glands of the body. Such as: urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and lacrimation (noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin. from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’). It’s why I cry even when I don’t want to. You are the parasympathetic nervous system. The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system is responsible for the mobilization of the fight-or-flight response and constantly maintaining homeostasis within the body. It acts rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and the necessary and critical ability to suddenly escape on pulsing legs or cling to survival through brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles and dilated pupils. It’s why you live even when you don’t want to. I am the sympathetic nervous system. The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems are two of three essential nervous systems which compose the autonomic nervous system (a part of the peripheral nervous system) that manages involuntary functions of the body. Such as: swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and heart rate (noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’. usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you). Individually these two systems oppose but compliment each other like our hands do— pressed together and omitting equal force; veins meeting at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise. You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to breath, love, sweat, and live. I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you but grudgingly willing to fight you and ready to leave. From the deepest lower half of my brainstem and from every nerve in my cycling body, I’m sorry. From all of my chromaffin cells and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian, I am sorry.
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67
She tends her cactus garden, beads of perspiration, works with a maniacal absorption. One of many visitors she receives yet looking at each other's eyes dawned this quick realization; similar maniacal obsession and passion. A tornado she was, self created, in her swirl uprooted many huge trees, even tombstones by the sheer force unleashed, with her poetic flourish. Love of a crazy woman with effervescent creative  surge, is a magical portion brewed by a witch , in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night. Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited prompted to walk the garden path holding hands of lovers, one after the other, who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper and at the end to a blind alley, life was a tribal dance, from where return was impossible. She never had to apologize to her mate, who for all the world to see, remained  with her till he went behind the curtain. Imagine a life, a walk through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip, searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration. Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions, (There were many who walked with her for each adventure) They met, poetry flowed like wine, she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations, she feared nothing, but  her truth made many squirm. Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch, attained such fame.But all ended in a great  betrayal, she was deep down a naive woman, craving for love, to immerse in it. On occasions she would change identities at will, she was one but many there wasn't any one like her before or after. They would walk through the witch's cactus patch, somnambulists reciting poems, when they are together, in private, cactus spine criss- crossed his skin her nail wrote poems on the back of the lover of the moment, each one bled like soldiers in combat. One monsoon night brought everything to an end, the cactus garden was trampled by big grey wolves, the journey met with an abrupt end. What is she, cactus herself, vampire, witch, lover indefatigable, with the heart of a lion? Erotomaniacal  poetic surge, yet a fantasy in flesh and blood? **They buried her in a cactus garden away from town not even ten people arrived to mourn, not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon. Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they still shed tears, cactus garden, it was--- the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
0
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
k-balachandran
In Her Cactus Garden
She tends her cactus garden, beads of perspiration, works with a maniacal absorption. One of many visitors she receives yet looking at each other's eyes dawned this quick realization; similar maniacal obsession and passion. A tornado she was, self created, in her swirl uprooted many huge trees, even tombstones by the sheer force unleashed, with her poetic flourish. Love of a crazy woman with effervescent creative  surge, is a magical portion brewed by a witch , in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night. Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited prompted to walk the garden path holding hands of lovers, one after the other, who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper and at the end to a blind alley, life was a tribal dance, from where return was impossible. She never had to apologize to her mate, who for all the world to see, remained  with her till he went behind the curtain. Imagine a life, a walk through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip, searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration. Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions, (There were many who walked with her for each adventure) They met, poetry flowed like wine, she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations, she feared nothing, but  her truth made many squirm. Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch, attained such fame.But all ended in a great  betrayal, she was deep down a naive woman, craving for love, to immerse in it. On occasions she would change identities at will, she was one but many there wasn't any one like her before or after. They would walk through the witch's cactus patch, somnambulists reciting poems, when they are together, in private, cactus spine criss- crossed his skin her nail wrote poems on the back of the lover of the moment, each one bled like soldiers in combat. One monsoon night brought everything to an end, the cactus garden was trampled by big grey wolves, the journey met with an abrupt end. What is she, cactus herself, vampire, witch, lover indefatigable, with the heart of a lion? Erotomaniacal  poetic surge, yet a fantasy in flesh and blood? **They buried her in a cactus garden away from town not even ten people arrived to mourn, not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon. Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they still shed tears, cactus garden, it was--- the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
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67
Laid here counting roof tiles... two at a time my eyes heavy but my lids in denial of sleep she whispers in my ear are you awake then adds good with a grin WHY NOT abandon one basic need for another why not rest upon anothers flesh soft and warm scented with the promise of dreams insomnia so cruely denies Pillow pressed beneath her back giving support so sorely needed amid the punctuated night time prayers God called upon in blasphemous tongues praised and cussed in unison of mouths wet and open Sheets that offer no warmth soon cast off replaced by heat of breath and perspiration sweet and salty to the lips kissing nibbling biting nails find no fault inscribing thank yous in reddened ink Falling back exhausted yet wide awake as by my side cuddled in she sleeps smiling and I close my eyes and think myself blessed for every night the first for we two have yet to sleep together.
0
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
dieingembers
Sleeps Over ******
Laid here counting roof tiles... two at a time my eyes heavy but my lids in denial of sleep she whispers in my ear are you awake then adds good with a grin WHY NOT abandon one basic need for another why not rest upon anothers flesh soft and warm scented with the promise of dreams insomnia so cruely denies Pillow pressed beneath her back giving support so sorely needed amid the punctuated night time prayers God called upon in blasphemous tongues praised and cussed in unison of mouths wet and open Sheets that offer no warmth soon cast off replaced by heat of breath and perspiration sweet and salty to the lips kissing nibbling biting nails find no fault inscribing thank yous in reddened ink Falling back exhausted yet wide awake as by my side cuddled in she sleeps smiling and I close my eyes and think myself blessed for every night the first for we two have yet to sleep together.
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43
There’s no other choice but to wear them, The drawer offered nothing but these. An odd pair of socks might be quirky, Odd sizes don’t normally please. The one at my ankle was spotted, The other was striped to the knee The latter two sizes the smaller, The former quite large by degree. This mismatch I thought to keep secret And cover the dissonant pair. I chose from the wardrobe some trousers And shoes, with considerable care. My ruse would conceal the divergence From prescribed social standards of dress And none would be any the wiser My discomfort I’d have to suppress. Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure When physical pain has attacked. The small sock had cramped my toes tightly That blood didn’t flow, was a fact. My colleagues regarded me strangely For they could see nothing amiss But I could feel cold perspiration, Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss. It was then that I felt a strange itching, The striped sock began to descend And round my right ankle it wrinkled And bulged at the trouser leg end. Dismayed at my great consternation But clueless to what was awry My friends made comforting gestures Need of which I could only deny. The moral of this story’s transparent Socks are always best worn as a pair Their nature is in the relationship Which provides a well-balanced air. And take the trouble to remember Be congruent in all that you do For disparity will often bring discord And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
0
Oct 11, 2009
Oct 11, 2009 at 6:43 AM UTC
karen-alexander
Odd Socks
There’s no other choice but to wear them, The drawer offered nothing but these. An odd pair of socks might be quirky, Odd sizes don’t normally please. The one at my ankle was spotted, The other was striped to the knee The latter two sizes the smaller, The former quite large by degree. This mismatch I thought to keep secret And cover the dissonant pair. I chose from the wardrobe some trousers And shoes, with considerable care. My ruse would conceal the divergence From prescribed social standards of dress And none would be any the wiser My discomfort I’d have to suppress. Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure When physical pain has attacked. The small sock had cramped my toes tightly That blood didn’t flow, was a fact. My colleagues regarded me strangely For they could see nothing amiss But I could feel cold perspiration, Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss. It was then that I felt a strange itching, The striped sock began to descend And round my right ankle it wrinkled And bulged at the trouser leg end. Dismayed at my great consternation But clueless to what was awry My friends made comforting gestures Need of which I could only deny. The moral of this story’s transparent Socks are always best worn as a pair Their nature is in the relationship Which provides a well-balanced air. And take the trouble to remember Be congruent in all that you do For disparity will often bring discord And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
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40
Please forgive my hesitation at instigation of flirtation. Did I ensure my elimination? My romantic assassination? I'll gladly partake in any placation, for any chance of indoctrination to the centralization of your concentration. An operation of admiration. A correlation of inflammation. Your gravitation brings animation, exclamation and elongation. My specialization is duration. Not to hint at a connotation, but I feel a certain ********** by an obligation to a certain destination where your presentation gives me restoration. Petrification? Total mind evacuation? Would clarification bring fascination? Stimulation! Salivation! Gratification! Insinuation of fornication? A simple salutation to syncopation. Would a single bright carnation be enough of a motivation, for a two way relocation? Would poetic recitation be sufficient lubrication for collaboration? A consolidation? Or an exacerbation of isolation? Please hold no reservation, I've only got one aspiration. To achieve a higher elevation; by means of inhalation, or a certain recreation involving a bit of perspiration along with physical communication. Does this seem such a bad situation? Or are you ready for pure elation?
0
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
robert-jackson
**** Sophia
Please forgive my hesitation at instigation of flirtation. Did I ensure my elimination? My romantic assassination? I'll gladly partake in any placation, for any chance of indoctrination to the centralization of your concentration. An operation of admiration. A correlation of inflammation. Your gravitation brings animation, exclamation and elongation. My specialization is duration. Not to hint at a connotation, but I feel a certain ********** by an obligation to a certain destination where your presentation gives me restoration. Petrification? Total mind evacuation? Would clarification bring fascination? Stimulation! Salivation! Gratification! Insinuation of fornication? A simple salutation to syncopation. Would a single bright carnation be enough of a motivation, for a two way relocation? Would poetic recitation be sufficient lubrication for collaboration? A consolidation? Or an exacerbation of isolation? Please hold no reservation, I've only got one aspiration. To achieve a higher elevation; by means of inhalation, or a certain recreation involving a bit of perspiration along with physical communication. Does this seem such a bad situation? Or are you ready for pure elation?
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41
Goodnight! O how I wish you were by my side, because This night Is filled with the shadow monsters whom take such a Delight In feeding off the fear my perspiration makes clear Goodnight! O my love, I just hope they don't get to me before you do Goodnight!
0
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
myfuckingdomain
Goodnight
Goodnight! O how I wish you were by my side, because This night Is filled with the shadow monsters whom take such a Delight In feeding off the fear my perspiration makes clear Goodnight! O my love, I just hope they don't get to me before you do Goodnight!
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9
Soon, the masterpiece will come. Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep, And maybe in your dreams discover Words and lines to keep. For the darkness is a tunnel Straight to Heaven’s door, There a thousand poets wait for you - A thousand gone before, Before their works were finished, Before their jobs were through Now creation of the masterpiece Is solely up to you. Hear their spirit, poet! Listen very close. You’ve been chosen as the protégé But do not brag or boast For the masterpiece consumes you, Like hell-fire, burns you up, Leaves you thirsting for some water And reaching for a cup, That crumbles when you grab it. While the water turns to dust, But still you keep on reaching, reaching, You must, you must, you must. Feel their breath, oh poet! Cool upon your skin, Though sweat and perspiration Reveal the torment trapped within. For the masterpiece consumes you, Like a pen that’s out of ink, Leaves you reaching for a pencil, And needing time to think, But both ends are erasers Now your passion turned to lust So still you keep on reaching, reaching, You must, you must, you must. For the darkness is a tunnel A tunnel straight to Hell There a thousand poets wait for you - At a long abandoned well, Before their works were finished, The waters all ran dry There will be no masterpiece If all the poets die. Shh, soon the masterpiece will come. Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep, And a thousand poets after you Will search for words and lines to keep. Phil Lindsey 6/9/15
0
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
phil-lindsey
The Masterpiece
Soon, the masterpiece will come. Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep, And maybe in your dreams discover Words and lines to keep. For the darkness is a tunnel Straight to Heaven’s door, There a thousand poets wait for you - A thousand gone before, Before their works were finished, Before their jobs were through Now creation of the masterpiece Is solely up to you. Hear their spirit, poet! Listen very close. You’ve been chosen as the protégé But do not brag or boast For the masterpiece consumes you, Like hell-fire, burns you up, Leaves you thirsting for some water And reaching for a cup, That crumbles when you grab it. While the water turns to dust, But still you keep on reaching, reaching, You must, you must, you must. Feel their breath, oh poet! Cool upon your skin, Though sweat and perspiration Reveal the torment trapped within. For the masterpiece consumes you, Like a pen that’s out of ink, Leaves you reaching for a pencil, And needing time to think, But both ends are erasers Now your passion turned to lust So still you keep on reaching, reaching, You must, you must, you must. For the darkness is a tunnel A tunnel straight to Hell There a thousand poets wait for you - At a long abandoned well, Before their works were finished, The waters all ran dry There will be no masterpiece If all the poets die. Shh, soon the masterpiece will come. Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep, And a thousand poets after you Will search for words and lines to keep. Phil Lindsey 6/9/15
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49
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space... (attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT... ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections. A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed... for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs. Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled-- fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook. ...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed absentia...holy and bovine. Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore-- eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers and sisters. As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease of interstice...off-world amorousness. Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady... live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling. Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary correspondence of authored and Author. ...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push. Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth. LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY. NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
0
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Onoma
Gorgeous Gargoyles
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space... (attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT... ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections. A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed... for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs. Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled-- fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook. ...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed absentia...holy and bovine. Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore-- eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers and sisters. As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease of interstice...off-world amorousness. Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady... live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling. Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary correspondence of authored and Author. ...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push. Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth. LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY. NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
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25
**My spirits are low No more inspiration No matter the perspiration The stars have refused to glow It's probably because I'm happy But why should happy make ****** And poems not worthwhile Well feel like frowning this smile Even just for a little while I wish inspiration was at a dial**
0
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
ignatius-hosiana
FAILURE OF SUCCESS
**My spirits are low No more inspiration No matter the perspiration The stars have refused to glow It's probably because I'm happy But why should happy make ****** And poems not worthwhile Well feel like frowning this smile Even just for a little while I wish inspiration was at a dial**
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10
my wild heart beats excitedly feeling overwhelmed with desire soft caresses quicken the pulse sending it into a whirlwind of hypnotic feelings control is lost falling from fingertips dazed by prickles of need not satisfied until flesh meets flesh ending with the exhaustion and perspiration of spent love
0
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
susanjj
**********
my wild heart beats excitedly feeling overwhelmed with desire soft caresses quicken the pulse sending it into a whirlwind of hypnotic feelings control is lost falling from fingertips dazed by prickles of need not satisfied until flesh meets flesh ending with the exhaustion and perspiration of spent love
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17
Sweet and supple golden nectar, Caress my lips, gentle as a kiss, There is no distance I would not venture, Nor no succulent sip that I would miss. The cold perspiration sits on my glass As the most beautiful woman waiting, Whisper melody like hypnotic brass Ensemble, heavenly mood creating. As you pour yourself down my open throat, I float in an ocean, calm and serene, Comfort envelops, warmer than my coat. You are my only and forever Queen. Peering through cloudy eyes on the bathroom floor, The ***** in my throat lets me know I am yours.
0
Aug 23, 2023
Aug 23, 2023 at 8:18 AM UTC
Markoinfo
Alcohol (The Liquor Always Wins)
Sweet and supple golden nectar, Caress my lips, gentle as a kiss, There is no distance I would not venture, Nor no succulent sip that I would miss. The cold perspiration sits on my glass As the most beautiful woman waiting, Whisper melody like hypnotic brass Ensemble, heavenly mood creating. As you pour yourself down my open throat, I float in an ocean, calm and serene, Comfort envelops, warmer than my coat. You are my only and forever Queen. Peering through cloudy eyes on the bathroom floor, The ***** in my throat lets me know I am yours.
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14
daily provisioning wallet  watch  testicles  spectacles cash (single bills) cell phone bottle of water   hairbrush with vanity attached, personal technology baggie (earbuds, variety of charging cords etc.) loose change in order to fall from pockets & annoy yourself sunglasses (idiot! summers half over) and something else... pocket tissues! skin and bone, muscle, all flavors and multilayers, a language of music only you hear, the pumping station internal, the gaga motion product of the palette of body following souled emotions, the antacid pills after that burrito; and that strangely named thang called libido? your teeth  your smile, your shyest guile, to catch that lady’s hopefully.         reciprocated pearly whites delight, pen and pad to record being a sad and mad good lad, a Swiss Army knife if the tube or bus should (will) breakdown, your tiny little bottles of inspiration  perspiration and perspective, that you forgot to label the list to do and the list to add to the to do list and good heavens, a serious writing utensil to fool yourself when thinking serious thoughts like these the last but should be first, the house keys!! keys just an enabler to do it all again tomorrow   July 11, 2018  10:22pm
0
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
ogdiddynash
daily provisioning (a to do list)
daily provisioning wallet  watch  testicles  spectacles cash (single bills) cell phone bottle of water   hairbrush with vanity attached, personal technology baggie (earbuds, variety of charging cords etc.) loose change in order to fall from pockets & annoy yourself sunglasses (idiot! summers half over) and something else... pocket tissues! skin and bone, muscle, all flavors and multilayers, a language of music only you hear, the pumping station internal, the gaga motion product of the palette of body following souled emotions, the antacid pills after that burrito; and that strangely named thang called libido? your teeth  your smile, your shyest guile, to catch that lady’s hopefully.         reciprocated pearly whites delight, pen and pad to record being a sad and mad good lad, a Swiss Army knife if the tube or bus should (will) breakdown, your tiny little bottles of inspiration  perspiration and perspective, that you forgot to label the list to do and the list to add to the to do list and good heavens, a serious writing utensil to fool yourself when thinking serious thoughts like these the last but should be first, the house keys!! keys just an enabler to do it all again tomorrow   July 11, 2018  10:22pm
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39
turning her charms so slow. he smiles, in the wetness of his reward cranking and cranking! winding her in notch after notch tormenting her to madness. all her dreams melt into him as his promised shards hit deep ****** after ****** his jagged edge cuts to bleed her mind and body leading her to a valley of darkness bellows and cries relentlessly in her crescent moon the moans swelling from the corners of her abyss he stabs wildly in the glare of her darkshine leaving the streaks of fingerprints across her window pane devilishly in his detail of precision distorting her pleasure in pain the legs of her willingness spread wide her Innocence weeps nectar tears from the depths of her obscene layers of unseen obsession unfold the heated flower of her awaken phoenix-fire tightening the gaps of her resistances enraging his beast to survival forcing his fight for freedom thrashing away his ***** courage leading the way she finally surrenders to his death blows in total disregard in retaliation she strikes a venomous bite to his throat and lips her poisonous kiss their last breath shares perspiration's sweet scent of exhaustion as their life force drains to one from their lust of the battle in their pursuit to win the war of passion
0
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
MineDamnBrain
War-Torn Sheets of Satin
turning her charms so slow. he smiles, in the wetness of his reward cranking and cranking! winding her in notch after notch tormenting her to madness. all her dreams melt into him as his promised shards hit deep ****** after ****** his jagged edge cuts to bleed her mind and body leading her to a valley of darkness bellows and cries relentlessly in her crescent moon the moans swelling from the corners of her abyss he stabs wildly in the glare of her darkshine leaving the streaks of fingerprints across her window pane devilishly in his detail of precision distorting her pleasure in pain the legs of her willingness spread wide her Innocence weeps nectar tears from the depths of her obscene layers of unseen obsession unfold the heated flower of her awaken phoenix-fire tightening the gaps of her resistances enraging his beast to survival forcing his fight for freedom thrashing away his ***** courage leading the way she finally surrenders to his death blows in total disregard in retaliation she strikes a venomous bite to his throat and lips her poisonous kiss their last breath shares perspiration's sweet scent of exhaustion as their life force drains to one from their lust of the battle in their pursuit to win the war of passion
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44
Losing a tail Is like losing a rudder Like losing a ballast Stability must be found elsewhere As a quadruped there are four points of contact A biped has only two How do we replace that stability? With aspiration ~ Extinct ~ **** erectus* and **** neanderthalensis* ~ Extant ~ Hominids Great Apes Primarily lumbering along on all fours Quadrupedal Except Us **** sapiens* What mechanism allowed for bipeds? Natural selection? Or a naturally selected collective vision Through collective perspiration Art is used to mine dream-time Inspiring the masons among us The art is the plan The architecture is built upon And the builders perspiration Leads to the built environment How do you cap it? Egyptians used a capstone Aspiration Leading to Inspiration Leading to Perspiration Leading to A Spire Naturally
0
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
aaronmullin-fb
Natural Aspirations
Losing a tail Is like losing a rudder Like losing a ballast Stability must be found elsewhere As a quadruped there are four points of contact A biped has only two How do we replace that stability? With aspiration ~ Extinct ~ **** erectus* and **** neanderthalensis* ~ Extant ~ Hominids Great Apes Primarily lumbering along on all fours Quadrupedal Except Us **** sapiens* What mechanism allowed for bipeds? Natural selection? Or a naturally selected collective vision Through collective perspiration Art is used to mine dream-time Inspiring the masons among us The art is the plan The architecture is built upon And the builders perspiration Leads to the built environment How do you cap it? Egyptians used a capstone Aspiration Leading to Inspiration Leading to Perspiration Leading to A Spire Naturally
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40
For you I want to look my best A suit wears a M.A.N to impress Fresh hair cut..beard nicely trimmed Designer cuff links I'm in it to win Ring your door bell...you open the door Bouquet of flowers from ceiling to floor Fulfilling fantasies make love to your mind No words spoken could ever define Take you out dancing you are my Queen Conquering your desires to become your King Hold you close caressing your skin Make your heart flutter from my Devilish grin Leaving memories on your body as I touch Forget about time there is no rush No limit..providing endless inspiration Passion boils bodies dripping perspiration Tangled tongues twisting tasting ecstasy Discovering we share a destiny My duty to my lady on good manners I stand Rest your head on the chest of this Gentleman...
0
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
PoetryByMAN
Gentleman
For you I want to look my best A suit wears a M.A.N to impress Fresh hair cut..beard nicely trimmed Designer cuff links I'm in it to win Ring your door bell...you open the door Bouquet of flowers from ceiling to floor Fulfilling fantasies make love to your mind No words spoken could ever define Take you out dancing you are my Queen Conquering your desires to become your King Hold you close caressing your skin Make your heart flutter from my Devilish grin Leaving memories on your body as I touch Forget about time there is no rush No limit..providing endless inspiration Passion boils bodies dripping perspiration Tangled tongues twisting tasting ecstasy Discovering we share a destiny My duty to my lady on good manners I stand Rest your head on the chest of this Gentleman...
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20
When You begin to read this Feel my gentle soul Wrap my arms around you Please don't lose control Feel my energy around you I want to make you feel complete Feel the intensity surround you From your head down to your feet Feel my hands upon you Electric on your skin My passion from inside your heart Feel it deep within Feel the perspiration Coming from inside Our spirits wrapped together There is nothing we should hide Now we're stuck together How it feels Devine Two body's pulled together Angel Face and Sunshine
0
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
dennis-bielanski
Together
When You begin to read this Feel my gentle soul Wrap my arms around you Please don't lose control Feel my energy around you I want to make you feel complete Feel the intensity surround you From your head down to your feet Feel my hands upon you Electric on your skin My passion from inside your heart Feel it deep within Feel the perspiration Coming from inside Our spirits wrapped together There is nothing we should hide Now we're stuck together How it feels Devine Two body's pulled together Angel Face and Sunshine
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20
the weight of a hand resting in yours the resistance to the touch of a single finger upon another the sizzle of a thousand hairs between fingertips the dampness of breath upon your cheek the redness of pair of lips ...or of a blushing forehead ...or of cheekbones under droplets of perspiration the silence of an empty room the sense of someone close ...who is a thousand miles away ...and thinking of you
0
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
ottaross
Unenumerated Senses
the weight of a hand resting in yours the resistance to the touch of a single finger upon another the sizzle of a thousand hairs between fingertips the dampness of breath upon your cheek the redness of pair of lips ...or of a blushing forehead ...or of cheekbones under droplets of perspiration the silence of an empty room the sense of someone close ...who is a thousand miles away ...and thinking of you
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13
Paint the veil so the pale might wear off Let this rhyme be the lozenge to your cough Scoff and listen as words glisten shiny and new Heavenly time in a rhyme can clear the blues Make them red in your head and fuel the fire Stand with your heart in your hand, push the desire Mouths for hire and the perspiration comes down As the words become verbs to pick you off the ground Lost and found as that old becomes bigger better The rhyme's cold like winter day, so wear a sweater
0
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
nik-bland
Rhythmic Cold
Paint the veil so the pale might wear off Let this rhyme be the lozenge to your cough Scoff and listen as words glisten shiny and new Heavenly time in a rhyme can clear the blues Make them red in your head and fuel the fire Stand with your heart in your hand, push the desire Mouths for hire and the perspiration comes down As the words become verbs to pick you off the ground Lost and found as that old becomes bigger better The rhyme's cold like winter day, so wear a sweater
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10
Sitting in a bar. A beer with perspiration. Its raining outside. Hear the shuffleboard shuffle. Intoxicated poetics. Sober state of mind. Stools shrouded in mystery. Double doors leading in. Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions) Saloon of slumlords and hipsters Open mic night. Hippie Howls. Don’t worry we got this under control. Malboro reds, cowboy killers. Don’t spend you life wishing, Spend it living. Better yet, spend it drinking. Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts) Awkward rages. The best is coming. Shielding secret shame in this scene. Hidden in a pint of pilsner. Free thinkers in a haze of hops. Lets get drunk. Make shift graveyards on the walls. Honoring the dead. Rest in peace. Nothing less, nothing more. Old Heidelberg. Before my time. The stalls scrawled with graffiti. For a good time call. Scratched onto the stall. “Spread love like butter on a hot bun” Sherlock and Watson. Bromance. This is a bar of friends. What is this bar? Drunk off this atmosphere. Window panes with neon signs. Disillusioned. Concealed. Unfinished. The moves fast and goes right by. Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt. Members of the Great Unwashed. The signs of our time. I think we’re going to split. Can I get another drink? One for the road. Don’t cut me off quite yet.
0
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
zak-krug
Drunken Memories
Sitting in a bar. A beer with perspiration. Its raining outside. Hear the shuffleboard shuffle. Intoxicated poetics. Sober state of mind. Stools shrouded in mystery. Double doors leading in. Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions) Saloon of slumlords and hipsters Open mic night. Hippie Howls. Don’t worry we got this under control. Malboro reds, cowboy killers. Don’t spend you life wishing, Spend it living. Better yet, spend it drinking. Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts) Awkward rages. The best is coming. Shielding secret shame in this scene. Hidden in a pint of pilsner. Free thinkers in a haze of hops. Lets get drunk. Make shift graveyards on the walls. Honoring the dead. Rest in peace. Nothing less, nothing more. Old Heidelberg. Before my time. The stalls scrawled with graffiti. For a good time call. Scratched onto the stall. “Spread love like butter on a hot bun” Sherlock and Watson. Bromance. This is a bar of friends. What is this bar? Drunk off this atmosphere. Window panes with neon signs. Disillusioned. Concealed. Unfinished. The moves fast and goes right by. Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt. Members of the Great Unwashed. The signs of our time. I think we’re going to split. Can I get another drink? One for the road. Don’t cut me off quite yet.
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51
Tis a grand vocation to be an inspiration Tis a winsome aspiration may be an oblation May take some time along with perspiration Along with dedication may come a solved equation Tis a winsome aspiration may come with some elation. Tis a grand vocation to be an inspiration.
0
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 2:42 PM UTC
mcwa
Tis a Winsome Aspiration
Tis a grand vocation to be an inspiration Tis a winsome aspiration may be an oblation May take some time along with perspiration Along with dedication may come a solved equation Tis a winsome aspiration may come with some elation. Tis a grand vocation to be an inspiration.
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12
I’ve summed up the equation for my isolation It's People who look up, look down, left and right Desperate for information We never looked inside for much needed inspiration Instead, We lead a life of impulsive behavior mixed with preoccupation for our own reputation I've lost toleration for the weak minded population Individual thoughts slowly decay and eventually cut off circulation Sending thoughts on permanent vacation, worthy of respiration, ideas now suffer suffocation If this is my "generation" I’d rather live in hibernation You can take this as retaliation I just don’t understand why we seek gratification for having no imagination? I swear, It’s like the world around me is nothing more Than telecommunication Different voices yet the same conversation Broad interpretation leaves room for destructive ********** Shedding uniqueness for trendy consolidation **Who the **** do you think you are? a star?** You're no constellation You expel no illumination Your personality is a narrow cultivation of Seedy corporation, Media publication, And lack of moral stabilization Let me give you clarification Meditation is my detonation Put words in your mouth before you die of starvation We all have a fixation on giving into temptation Putting ourselves in situations were Passion is stimulation, Trust is manipulation and Love is *********** Pour out your heartache in perspiration After *********** we expect a standing ovation *** is nothing more than sensation* ....are we lost beyond the point of navigation?
0
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 12:35 AM UTC
m-violante
Meditation is My Detonation
I’ve summed up the equation for my isolation It's People who look up, look down, left and right Desperate for information We never looked inside for much needed inspiration Instead, We lead a life of impulsive behavior mixed with preoccupation for our own reputation I've lost toleration for the weak minded population Individual thoughts slowly decay and eventually cut off circulation Sending thoughts on permanent vacation, worthy of respiration, ideas now suffer suffocation If this is my "generation" I’d rather live in hibernation You can take this as retaliation I just don’t understand why we seek gratification for having no imagination? I swear, It’s like the world around me is nothing more Than telecommunication Different voices yet the same conversation Broad interpretation leaves room for destructive ********** Shedding uniqueness for trendy consolidation **Who the **** do you think you are? a star?** You're no constellation You expel no illumination Your personality is a narrow cultivation of Seedy corporation, Media publication, And lack of moral stabilization Let me give you clarification Meditation is my detonation Put words in your mouth before you die of starvation We all have a fixation on giving into temptation Putting ourselves in situations were Passion is stimulation, Trust is manipulation and Love is *********** Pour out your heartache in perspiration After *********** we expect a standing ovation *** is nothing more than sensation* ....are we lost beyond the point of navigation?
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37
welcomed to the idea, once again by the cool calling that lead me, barely heard, and hardly felt, yet, still coercing enough for this. so i decided to attempt it, again. an attempt made at nothing, when reality says it was something, as i digress, it was nothing, and again, it was something though i'll never name it what it should be called because it has a name. aspirations brought about by perspiration and an inclination that, again, it would be okay to try and make sense of something that i've wanted before and want again.
0
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 11:13 AM UTC
sal-gelles
aspirations
welcomed to the idea, once again by the cool calling that lead me, barely heard, and hardly felt, yet, still coercing enough for this. so i decided to attempt it, again. an attempt made at nothing, when reality says it was something, as i digress, it was nothing, and again, it was something though i'll never name it what it should be called because it has a name. aspirations brought about by perspiration and an inclination that, again, it would be okay to try and make sense of something that i've wanted before and want again.
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20
Gives me pleasure, Lets me measure, My Best Friend. Gives me access, To secret places, My Best Friend. Gives me inspiration, Wipes off perspiration, My Hand, My Best Friend.
0
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
Atul
My Best Friend
Gives me pleasure, Lets me measure, My Best Friend. Gives me access, To secret places, My Best Friend. Gives me inspiration, Wipes off perspiration, My Hand, My Best Friend.
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9