"shilouette" poems
If I know you
Better than today
I must be mad of myself
I am dying in jealousy
If i know you
Better than today
I want to see your shilouette
Every single day, every single scene
If i know you
Better than today
Let me tell you
You are kind of addiction
You are kind of trance of my imagination
If I know you
Better than today
I must be prepared
To be the one of your precious
To be the one of you crave the most
I may not be a perfection
I may not be a great figure like your father
But I dare to say
I will bring you the whole new world
Like the one you never met before
(2014)
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
There it is again
Momentary recall
That first time I saw you
Smoking on your balcony sill
Immersed in Joy Division
A symphony in your shilouette
September streetlights rising on every exhale
If i could have stopped all time I would
Escape with you in a polaroid still
Relinquished my heart
Discovered my soul
Eyes transfixed
Wanting only you
Yet you looked to the world
And you wanted it all
That song is the same now as then
Love
love will tear us apart
tear us apart again...
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Spicy scent of a sensual promise,
Air kisses, mouth playing in the shilouette,
Eyes are dark, pools of drowning fiery desire,
The sound of your breathing,
A capturing magical spell,
caught I am willingly in this tangled web.
Hard firm flesh and skin burning,
In peachy fair of deliscious color.
This creature of pleasure worshipped me.
I became the beauty Aphrodite between the sheets.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
It is a love poem when I am making love to you, a soliloquy of silence but for your murmurs and your moans. The stanza of your shilouette, the verses of your curves. An iamb means I love you dearly, a dactyl that you are delicious, spondees and trochess of tenderness and passion. There are rhymes and rhythms when we lie upon each other, an alliteraration of kisses and hugs, caesuras to catch out breath. Our ********** is a chiasmus, making and taking tortuous turns until white sheets and yellow pillows fall on hardwood floors. Caresses precede onomatopoetic sighs that become love songs. Anaphoric thrusts need no explication, only the silence and solitude of joy.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC