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~The blankets are on
but the sheets still fall off
maybe it's time to fold
and get on up
.
dreams are over, wake up
Cné Jul 2017
If you were my sheets, and at my beck and call
fulfilling all my fantasies, into you, I would fall.
You'd cradle me so gently, and massage me everywhere
releasing all my juices, and all my  stress, and cares.

In splendor we'd heat up the room, and I'd crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, I'd rejoice, every time we meet.
Pillows would cradling my face and head, where jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest.

We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights.
Your hands of silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving me all the pleasures, and climaxes, in you, I am immersed!
TF actually wrote this and I changed a few words to fit an artist statement to go with the painting that is posted as my cover. He graciously allowed my to post as a collaboration. Thank you TF.
Akira Chinen Sep 9
Theres no cure for heartache
but there is always *****
and poor judgement
and my stupidity has no boundaries

so let me drink until tomorrow
is nothing but sorrow and regret
and love ain’t nothin
but a poorly written poem
on the napkin I wrote a fake number
for the girl whose name
I can’t remember
but can still smell
on the sheets we stained
as I was trying to forget
who your are

I should have known
I wouldn’t find anything
but the hangover of disappointment
from this kind of love
the kind that only burns in the heart
but never touched by the hand

theres no cure for heartache
and its always going to burn
it won’t matter how many names
I can’t remember
or how ***** the sheets get
when I can’t forget
who you are
Chasing ghosts through a fountain
Hoping when my eyes clear from this momentary blindness
You'll be right behind me
Holding me up when I feel haunted in the middle of the day
patty m Dec 2015
I'm a poetry **

addicted to the high,

the ******* ride that always finds my sweet spot.  

Maybe I'm a ****,

it doesn't matter if I'm paid,

when I steal away from loved ones

to ride the waves of poetic passion and sensation.  

Undressed thought

either beautiful or lewd

slides across the sheets

embedding itself in the core of me.

I squirm in delight or

struggle against restraints,  

the whiplash of panic

bringing tears that need to vent.

until euphoria erases sight and sound.

I'm a lost cause,

spilling my heart, my love, my ****

for everyone to see.

Do you have some time

to take a ride with me?

.
all innuendo pertains to writing poetry :o)
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