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If my ears had tastebuds
“I hate you” would taste like
Regurgitated ice-cream
Now frothy and foamy with stomach acid

If my ears had tastebuds
“I love you” would taste like
Spicy chocolate covered *** berries

If ears had tastebuds
“I miss you” would taste like
The dissolving inside of merengue cookies

If my ears had tastebuds
Laughter would rise and pop like
Effervescent bubbles of celebration

If my ears had tastebuds
I would never be able to use a pillow again

If my ears had tastebuds
They are probably tired of
The constant metallic taste that appeared
The day the giant post obliterated their friends
Styles Jan 2018
The
warm whipped cream
dripped from her succulent lips
thick liquids drips
smooth tastebuds sips
big long strokes
deep penetrating licks
sensational vibes capsize our hips
riding each other's waves like two crossing ships
mesmerized as our two worlds collide
and coincide like nature designed  us
to co-exist we a twist
two organisms sharing a gift
shifting from the present to the moment
relishing in the sensations before they cease to exist
"what is an addiction to you?" they asked, “well” you begin, “an addiction is having a cigarette, and just when you finish it, you feel like you need another one” but what you have yet to sink into are the depths of your imagination that you can’t care to to dwell on, because you’re too busy floating on the surface of your own soul.
You see,
An addiction is having your first taste of the igniting fumes as they dance on your tastebuds, manipulating the fact that no matter how good it may taste, that is what’s going to destroy you. its pushing the pessimism out of the inevitable because you’re fooled into being blind enough to think that this isn’t the thing thats going to **** you. It's the trick it plays when you think the smoke is beautiful as it caresses itself around your touch of naive passion, when the smoke is only the remains of the damage you’ve already faced.
It's a belonging you covetously latch onto in a desperate attempt to find any source of comfort, when you don’t even realise that it's only comforting because you’ve filled it up with everything you hate about yourself, every word you wish you never said, or thing you wish you never did. It's filled with every person you wish you never met and hurt you wish you never faced.
But maybe its the kind of addiction thats filled with everything you love about yourself, every word you wish you did say or thing you did do. Maybe its filled with every person you wish you spoke to, or hurt you wish you had to face. either way, you’ve locked that up so deep down inside of you that you’ve lost the possibility of an easy escape, you have to find something that destroys you to make it reappear, even if it's only a brief reminder. A delicate touch. A gentle wind of scent.  
You see, nothing is ever like your first addiction. You could be skimming pebbles before you realise to shoot stars, but no matter how much bigger or brighter that star may seem, it will never truly give you the same release that skimming that pebble did.
You let your addiction take over your senses because you believe thats the only thing that can give you a sense of comfort. You don't even begin to consider that this addiction is whats burning your withered soul into nothing but a pile of ashes, swept in the wind of humanity and reality. An addiction is living with the reality of rotting flesh and damaged bones; you can’t even stand alone because you’ve let your addiction glue itself with the fear of loneliness to your hand, so you think of nothing other than it being a part of you, an attachment, a parasite ******* the life out of you, whereas all you’ll ever believe is that its ******* the poison out of your pure blood.
An addiction is something you may not even realise you’re addicted to because you haven’t let yourself get hungry enough to lust for it. It's always there. It's destroying you. Even the smell of your addiction gives you a sense of relief that you’re not alone, when in fact the smell is there to remind you that you are trapped in a state of your own mind.
You have chosen to be oblivious to be the flaws it possesses, because at the time nothing can seem better than your first addiction, nothing in this world could beat the smell, the taste and the touch of your first addiction, and you have let that take over your senses to a stage where if that addiction was taken from you, it would hollow out your heart like a pin pricked egg.
No addiction is better for you than your first love.
Did you really think i was talking about the cigarette?
tree essence Jul 2016
Two cakes
Both on my behalf
Carrot cake with a twist of lemon
Crunchie cheese cake
Complementary flavors
What a blend on the tastebuds
A birthday surprise
YUM YUM
Sarina May 2013
At nine, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said no
At ten, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said no
At eleven, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said no

At twelve, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said maybe later.

At thirteen, I had not shaved my legs
and my mother asked why, everyone wondered why –
that is like asking where I got my molars from
or why my tastebuds sizzle when I drink orange juice.  

Suddenly suddenly I was grown
but I had to hide every ****** tissue in the garbage.
Lora Lee Jun 2018
Lick the words
from my lips
let them slide down
your throat
like fruited jewels,
   dark, hard candies
   that melt into cream
a healing liquid  
oozing into my
               ventricles,
pumping milky beats
out through
           your cells
permeating the deep
of my wild
  
My syllables will
   wrap themselves
      around your syntax
frothy hybrids
of buttered silk
                and irony
heart-to-heart
conversations that
flow into the ether,
as heaven's night
endlessly begins

We twirl our tongues
into guttural utterings,
lustful verse
that glides from
slick-fervored ice
to an outpour
                    of lava
We feed each other
dreams
our saliva like honey
dripping with dawn's
tender glow
as we open up
like baby birds,
begging to be nourished
at all costs

Here,
in this lingual forest
Your breath finds a home
on my tastebuds,
my tongue
in your
          cheek
            
In between the tumults
of our
exploding oceans
This
     is how we
  love
Jeremy Bean Sep 2014
I can still taste the words
from every bitter-sweet time
I bit my tongue
and they went unheard
even with all the blood
on my tastebuds
Kathleen Jan 2015
You’re like a white noise slushie
swirling off my sunburnt tastebuds.
I can’t quite catch you.
Those coffee driven evenings have destroyed my mouth’s ability
to make something stay.
See, whispered lollipop kisses used to work
but not half as well as my grape syrup words.
Teach me how to fix my salt-sugar body.
You don’t know how many times those candy coated sighs
“I love you”
have crossed my artificially sweetened lips.
Styles Jul 2019
Your taste;
   flavor laced.
   with complexities,
   that are addicting to me.
   tastebuds consistently feening for,
   the texture of your consistency.
John Leuven Apr 2014
Twirl your tastebuds —
let me taste your
modal schwa
your vellum staining
truth or dare,
let me down
your feather-quill;
your quenching quantum
quaking.
Kimi ZS Oct 2018
You bought the house with lavender
seeded in the front porch.
The scent flutters between the doorsill
and through the letterbox
like bills overdue and invoices outstanding. A postal aroma,
envelope glue smells like flowers to me.

I was never granted the privilege of rearranging flowers
You said, there was more to life than flora,
these emerald, sap dripping, saturated stems
Swelling petals fascinated under my untried eyes,
You said I must not even graze the things.

I longed for a taste of the forbidden flora.
Did buds taste like honey? Were they sour like you told me?
Would they poison these supple
and innocent lips, turn them pink to grey?
Could tastebuds kiss the perennial vines,
the posies, the spray of efflorescence
A taste of simple sweetness -

I remember when you ripped the front-porch-lavender.
The roots could not resist your claws.
You sweat to mutilate strained flowers,
You always work harder. Verdure spoiled.
Ravaged, ruptured, tanked soil.
Hungry Panda Nov 2018
People show love in many ways
A note on the bathroom door
An extra brownie in your lunch box
Starting the car on a cold morning
For her it  was in her food
She cooked her emotions the way most chefs add salt
You could taste them clearly in every bite connecting your tastebuds to your heart,
If she was happy the steak melted on your tongue
If she was sad the soup made a tear glisten in your eye
But when she was in love with me
Every Bite sang in my mouth
She made my favorites every night
Life was good
But one day the bread wasn’t so fluffy
It held a melancholy note i’ve never tasted before
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t have the words to explain what she as feeling,
So I let it go
That was my mistake
Day by day, she started to crumble
So did her pies
She went from a wonder dancing in the kitchen and licking the spoon
To a hollow shell serving you lukewarm pasta that left you unsettled
I excused her behavior
I was busy she was stressed
The food was only cold because I was so late to the table
I didn’t realize it wasn’t dinner I was neglecting
It was her
If i could change one moment in my life, i’d be that night
The one where she finally felt up to baking again
We had some time together, she hummed a bit as she stirred the batter
But then she stumbled and dropped a glass measuring cup of milk she was holding
It was bitter irony seeing the woman i loved,
The light of my life,
Crying over spilled milk
That’d be the moment i’d change
I’d catch her wrist and hold her up
Just Like I promised I would
I wouldn’t fail her if I had another chance
Our kitchen is quiet these days
There's a thick layer of dust everywhere except the microwave
And around the edges of the room are tiny bits of glass
Glistening like diamonds
Or unshed tears,
Abandoned like me
But I can’t complain
After all, I abandoned her first
I should have read the recipe
I should have realized she was breaking
I didn’t see it at first
But every bite held a piece of her suicide note
If i’d only tasted it before it was too late
Now she’s gone
My hearts as broken as that measuring cup
And I’m the one crying over spilled milk

By Aknier     ~this is fictional~
Хейли Jan 2014
What if the walls of your rosebud,
can read the bumps of my tastebuds,
as if they were brail,
and you discover all the lies
that it once formed into sound?
How truthful would my tastebuds feel,
if it headliner in the paper always read,
"I am changed" in the daily news?
Solaces Oct 2015
What is cheese to me..
salvation of the tastebuds!! where the wave of cheeder sticks to my tastebuds attacking with flavor!!!
i cannot imagine a world without cheese.. i mean **** can you put cheese on that..
what kind of cheese is not yours.. not cho cheese why because its mine!!
like the lone dorito how i love to let it melt in my mouth.. jesus what kind of cheese do they put on that..
and pizza.. ***!!! parmy cheese please..
love to open a block of cheese and cut me a big slice.. my cheese my size the way i want it.. and it will not get hard in the fridge if u put foil on it!!!
YUMMY!!!!!!!
RW Dennen Aug 2014
Colorado,Colorado,
I wish I was in Colorado.
Where  puffers stand in line
to have a good-old-time.

I wish you were in Colorado
and puff away your blues,
and have a restful snooze.

Where people laugh
out loud and make their puffers' cloud.

And people stop and stare
into thought provoking air,
and talk about the deeper things
in life.

Sensuous summer fills
my mind
between my munchies
all the time.
My tastebuds shout in glee
with popcorn near my reach
and soda made of peach.

Colorado, Colorado,
I hear you callin' me
forget about that tree
of good and evil be.
And smoke away-at times-
those nasty nursery rhymes
cramped between
folders made of black.

Colorado,Colorado,
I wish I was in Colorado
to get a mountain high.
Where puffers' stand in line
to have a good-old-time...

Since not allowed to light
we're allowed to write:
"Let the **** reign forever"
LEGALIZE, LEGALIZE . LEGALIZE
katrinawillrich Jan 2015
I remember the taste of water in those concrete fountain's that sit in the park and
The school fountains after recess,
a dream come true after not being able to swing
Exhausted from the handlebars
Playing tag.
Bottled water tapping, ain't got **** on those fountains.
Mike Hauser Sep 2013
Contemplating the versatility of Mayo
And all that can be done with it
From the slathering on whilst sun bathing
To globbing it on my bologna sandwich

I find it tantalizing to the tastebuds
And it sure does sizzle in the sun
I once applied to much and set my toes on fire
Lucky for me I lost only one

Thank goodness I was near the water
When my foot went up in flames
I guess that's why God gives us ten toes
In case we lose any along the way

As with anything you can even get bored with Mayonnaise
That's why I strive for different ideas
So I put my brain juices into overdrive
And came up with this amazing list

Instead of milk in a shake you can use Mayo
Please wait till the end for all the applause
I'm still having trouble dealing with thickness
And have yet to get it through the straw

Perhaps if I leave out the ice cream
And just add Mayo, milk chocolate, and ice
I guess I'll just keep on experimenting
When it's ready you can be the first in line

And who doesn't like mayonnaise on anchovie pizza
The perfect combination at best
Even better than peanut butter and jelly
If only I can figure out how to package it

Mayonnaise is also the perfect conditioner
You could leave it in your hair for days I suppose
But try to avoid to much time in the sun
After all...remember the toes

I'm going back to my room for more ideas now
Or as I like to call it..."The Mayo Think Tank"
I know my family thinks I'm a genius
Cause they always leave me in there for days
Devin Lawrence Nov 2015
Waking up,
The smell of strawberries
Marries the air
And infatuates me into
An early morning's lust;
I'm in paradise.

Holding your hand,
Fingers intertwined,
As the radio plays
And we stay with the beat.

Leaning in,
This is the moment;
Strawberries flood
My tastebuds,
And then you blew a bubble to the size of your face.

Bathing in bubbles
That are scent-less,
And I'm senseless
And my hands roam
And your mind leaves this world.

A fire burns
And seven bodies
Bare witness to newborn
Affection-
And I swear a star was too.

But I'll never see that star.
That taste seems so vague.
I came in and burst your bubble-
Tastes sweet
Until the flavor faded.

So here we are,
A bubblegum kiss later,
With a layer between us.
sg Jun 2013
I've already forgotten
the way my name
sat in your mouth
and rolled off your tongue.
your tastebuds
won't divorce*
the tangy zest
of Giuseppe's sauce

the fulsome tomato flavour
you'll always want to savour

Giuseppe's sauce
is
so
yum
yum

Giuseppe's makes
the
palate
hum
*hum
betterdays Mar 2014
as i sit here,
eating yet another
bowl of trifle,
that is rabbit-like,
in it's ability,
to seem neverending.

my thoughts lollop,
with leperorine grace to,
fibonacci
and his box of bunnies
multipying and multiplying....
....ad infinitum...

another spoon,
to my mouth.
stop....
the sun's gentle rays,
sparkle through,
jellies translucency.
as tastebuds swoon
at sweet sugar's mango rush.
synapses hop and pop within
my head....

and in my mind's eye,
i see flopsy, mopsy,
cottontail..boy  and paul.
(not peter..copyright laws)
cavorting with fibonacci's
numbers,
1,1,3,5,8,13,21....and so on.
playing leap frog, in a hedge
maze.
they play and add and hop and
grow,
in an unending  trail,
spiraling off.... into the west,
in a sweet smelling lavender haze.

at this point, i'm now thinking...
just, how much sherry did
aunty beryl put in this magic
trifle....

if i am honest with myself  
and with you as well.
i will open my heart to confess.
to three new,

believed abstractions:

one;
after all these years(47)
i am still enamoured of beatrix's
cute little rabbits
(but i must still claim
miss jemima puddleduck
as my  all time favourite)

two;
fibonacci's numbers still rule
(what an extraordinary mind
this man owned and used
to the betterment of man kind)

and three;
....much more prosaically..
you see...
i fear i am having a moment of
metenoia ....
with regard to the trifle...
and the amount of it's delctable
connsumption.

i can now clearly
and a tiny bit queasily,
see....
what it is  to be a glutton!!!
and i find repentant thoughts
of never again will i eat so much...
(in one sitting)....
are stomping on the rabbits.




(fortunately the rabbits are
getting out of the way....
...quick little fellas aren't they..
...no rabbits were hurt in the filming
of this imaginary sequence...)
written post christmas
Mattea Marie Aug 2013
I could get drunk
Off the smell of your skin
And the taste of your tongue
But now you taste like ***
And the breath of
Someone else
Marie-Chantal Oct 2014
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain.
Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet.
salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one......
Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT.

BLOOD:
juice
gore
cruor
claret
hemoglobin
sanguine fluid
clot
plasma
vital fluid


why would I ever use blood?

Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming.

when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to *blossom
A total stream of consciousness. It is utterly lacking in another y structure or logical punctuation/capitalisation. I'd love to hear some feedback
Emily Jun 2014
Nanu, I had a dream last night that you came back

From being gone almost 3 years

We embraced and I told you I missed you so much

It was bittersweet, really.

I had seen you, and then you disappeared.

Like a shadow, when the sun decides to sleep.

I could've slept eternally knowing I would've been with you; forever

I remember when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer.

You held a smooth stone and told me, "Emily this stone is going to heal me one day."

You told me how it would make you better.

I remember one thanksgiving you gave me a glass of your wine

It was, bittersweet.

Vinegary as it ate away my tastebuds
Sweet like strawberries marinading in sugar, only.. Wine is made out of grapes... You taught me that.

Its funny, you used to let me sit upon your lap when you mowed the lawn, it was my own mistake for crashing it into the fence.

It was, bittersweet.

I got to drive a lawn mower and you had to fix the fence.

I look back to how happy you were on the sun porch in the summer heat, especially when lightening would strike the area around us,

I'd hide my face in your tarnished sweater

It was, bittersweet.

This morning I stood in the snow

Weeping as I stared at the sky,

Then I remembered, you didn't disappear, you just went on vacation for awhile.

It's bittersweet, really.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
It's now or never what awaits
Gin is forever like her collagen of skin
the wanting how her prayers got answered
The (Him) the (I-phone) not my (Apple)
My blessings I got my miracle how fate
sipped me in with my best friend
                        (Gin)
The sip loving him  gin is her oxygen
All cravings from the countries
Native American, Latin American
Afro American, and The North American
The Hotel going to all the meetings
At the Sheraton
my lip to his sunset
Makes a world of her savings

Meets to my original
Tastebuds petals
and sprinkles like bling
Watering my rosebuds
So many brands but
Modern twist
Portugal Spanish
olives trees could sing

Cat nine lives versus her
Gin of love doves pleas

Scratch me lucky seven
But  conventional
Love-seat sectional
Him- I- Gin lets be

((Gin Rational))

Like the pixel living
more with a sweet taste
Stirring and purring Cat
I-Gin him the mighty morsel
Playing black-Jack
She had the best cards
Gin* I * pack
The game is pouring
the poker lip scouring

The origin of Dracula Bram Stoker
Her wavy hair red-hot tasseled
Like waves of (Gin) rippled
She mingled like" I- Gin"
But she was more mortal
Are we on air 2 win
The News over dripping
Hot Gin story him side-slip
National sip velvet whole lip
The warmth going down
The gin was magical potent
All exotic types she dressed
in stripes
Not the American Flag

The European sip of the Gin
Meeting her man
Weaving through the warmth
Juniper Glamped Gin camper
He's so defined in his character
Gin all him her floret trim glass

The process takes time
Gin- Boss Italian glass
Florence blown
Newfangled  or seductively
Flagged in bangled worn

Entirely subjective
The Europeans Industry
Origin of the whole dynasty
Juniper berries
Like a Junior virginity-Gin
Or him___?
Far from New York City
His flight first class (Gin)
and only him
Butterflies look divine on
her breast
Like the Gin and Science test
Her cherries in her Gin Drink
His theories in his Manly winks

The gin so medicinal
How it ward off malaria
She drinks to her delicately
tone body All God-lit
Her swiftly steps fit
Shes all heart like the ballerina
She is the Grace of the gin drink
The new look on her face
The purest wings fly the best
Our time of the Origin

Women and Men start now to begin
Dressed up new technology generation
The Gin of romance mission
The next pour dripping
intense torrential rain
For the single- set such potential
The married couple drenching
drink wet was more primal

The Gin couple was immaculate
never late
They won the bet that's
Gin-like no other fate
This is about the Origin of Gin my style and how a drink can change lives or if your single talk more and starts to mingle if your married there might very well be Gin God have a party gin fire up your hot rod
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
How Many Calories in a Poem?


visualizing the invisible,
we deconstruct the content,
the in-titled label reviewed,
querying,
is this one worth the cost?

looking for true fiber,
then further inquire,
perchance,
are there grams of
kick-starting emotive proteins,
stored and lurking within,
homes for the cells
that will inspire, transform,
mere readers into mountainous writers

lean on those scripts,
injected with just hints,
resting ribbons of flavorful fat equipped,
for there will always be
the tyranny
of the those of the sparse faith,
those writers of haiku brevity,
believers that
fat free,
is the only,
but lonely,
bene of beauty

death from ignorance to those
who would poison the fruit
of the alphabet tree,
coat produce, with glossy chemicals,
that preserve the shiny exteriors,
cooking up false feasts interior,
saturating us with the trans-fats of trite,
oily verbosity and labels of organic,
that conceal the risks of
hyper-pretensivity

an every poem, seasoned for taste,
a dash of diamond sea salts,
scatter on pinches of pearls
of Caribbean cane sugar,
sprinkle human sins and cinnamon
for zest and tang,
for inspiration and flavoring,
for the souls tonguing tastebuds,
needy for reasons
to celebrate  commissioning
the enticing exhalations of appreciative
oohs and ahs!

Warning!
this poem was processed
in a old, out-of-date factory,
that is most assuredly not,
nat-nut free*

but even if allergic,
be unafraid to taste the acerbic,
for there are
poems
suited for everyones, even your
peculiarities

you want your essayed poems
to brim healthy caloric,
grow them as offshoots
of your very own organs

you need not seek anothers certification,
if filled they are
with the mettle of iron,
built to be
calcium-fortified structures,
with the perpetual strong bones
of rhyme and sonnet

let each worded edifice
be the food,
stored to be gifted
to our progeny,
by their ever living on,
marking us,
marking them

omit the trite,
we ken no need,
for it is the false emptiness of
misleading carbohydrates,
that only fatten,
for the briefest satisfaction,
purposed for the killing of fulfilling,
dulling that which only
a well prepared
dish poetic,
can bring to healthy enliven
the human spirit




Nov. 12, 2015
Aboard Delta #2499
5:10 pm
when you are trying to lose weight, you obsess about bad calories
in everything...
john oconnell Sep 2010
Cigars from Summatra -

100% tobacco, strong in flavour

and catering for the hungry tastebuds

help

in between

putting on one's thinking cap

and an unadulterated

course of action.
The smell of burnt moments is
Haunting me.
The taste of ashes,
like a bittersweet friend,
Savoured in my tastebuds, mixed with
Chemotherapy

I used to be a young soul
Only fourteen winters had tested me.
But suddenly I had to discard the label of
"Cheerful and promising youth"
And replaced it with
"dying"

It's funny how life works out some times, and in this case -
How it didn't.
Danielle Shorr Jun 2015
It always seems to be a similar path,
this one I go down.

strung along, hanging on to the back of jean pockets and
holding on to loose hands
clinging just gently enough to not be a bother,
this is how I love.

insecure
like a mid day shadow peeking out to make it's presence known
quietly, but not too loud as to call attention,

like a peach picked up at the market
promising sweet no matter how bruised
I care only to keep the tastebuds wanting

cautious of being too much,
constantly afraid that I am,
conscious of how easily I could be replaced,

one sided like
skin meeting ink
you will be the tattoo gun and
I will be the swollen reminder
you will go unharmed while
I am marked permanent

twinge-yearning,
nail-pulling,
folding back the flesh.
this is how I love and
I know how this goes

you'll look at other girls and
I'll look at you the way the land looked
at rain after the first drought

you'll give away glimpses of your smile to strangers and
I'll give you all of me like it's possible
to grow back complete

you'll put your arms around hips that aren't mine and
I'll feel my own expand with envy

you'll toss around the word love and
I'll attempt to catch it every time it lands
near someone else's feet

you'll carry other names in your mouth while
yours will be the only one in mine, tucked
safely under the tongue

you'll provide me reassurance without an asking for it and
I'll pretend I don't care about a thing in the world when
really it is you who has become my entire universe

you'll play me the way that I'm used to and
I'll laugh like it's a game I never wanted to win anyway
because
I hate losing things I love

you'll make me swell empty without intending to and
I'll make you full with whatever I have to offer

you'll inflict sadness unknowingly and
I'll make you happy like it's a method for survival,
like it's my ******* purpose for existing

this is how I love.
not too tightly, just soft enough for your liking
here I am, programmed for the pleasing
I will hang on like a child's fist does a dandelion
light enough to keep the stem intact
leaving room for your fingers to wrap around
praying you wont let go but
this is how I love and I know how it goes
how it will go
destined to meet the ground eventually after
being dragged along knowingly
I am
aware of how it is,
the same,
always but
this is how I love for
I do not know any other way
Bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish
i
un-wrap
the tightly wrapped satiny
Paper Package
-- and savor
every sweet taste
Of juicy fruit- and bubbly deliciousness
Wetting my mouth and
AWakening my
wanting tastebuds.

Roll it on my tongue,
blow gently, and
pop, there's that bubbly bubble
gum on my face.
Lavender Menace Mar 2020
I hate hamburgers. The meat seems purpluent and frankly, the whole entourage is terribly disdaining.
Although I know it's wrong of me to choose my slimey, unhealthy version of the food mixture, I adore it so. The beautiful, white thick and firm yet light and fluffy vanilla waffle bun, with holes that could tear your very soul out (and your drive to lose weight) and lead it to a creamfilled neverland of euphoric bliss.
The raspberries and they're very mucilaginous texture, ever tempting me alike sweet filled ***** tempts up your stomach and out of your mouth because the habit and this strangely erodic hamburger that you can't seem to keep away from yourself.
Under those sticky temptations that humans named raspberries. Lies an evil not to be released unto this innocently skinny world. The gluttonous rice, the red bean paste. And. the. Unholy amount of S U G A R… yes, my fellow small waist golden cricket. For the good of hell and heaven I will warn you of the gluttonous evil called the mochi patty. We've all heard of mochi. That beautiful ice cream filled tragedy. Only my vividly destructive hell that i call an imagination could conjure this terrible fat producer as a patty in this baneful “hamburger” this mochi patty creates an all ailing armageddon in your calorie count. And a suburb genesis for your tastebuds, for the smooth, powdered sweet beauty is the bane of all. The fall of man was brought by mochi, because mochigome is an angelic harm.
The next ingredient in this burger of allure is a safe ingredient. F i n a l l y.
Honey
Mustard.
It's but in normal food and it's not too sweet, there must be SOME health benefits of it surely? That small amount of spice in the creamy oasis. Mixes gracefully with the rest of its poisonous peers.
Now back to my torture of pain and of chocolate *****, next is something hard to save you from all this soft. But don't be fooled just yet, this slab of hard is N O T a salvation. For a slab of hershey's milk chocolate is not ideal for hale. The brits can't even handle how much sugar is in this bar of pure D I S A S T E R. your immune system can't take this angelic evil, eat a carrot instead.
Strawberry ice cream is next made with sugar, vanilla, strawberry flavoring, and E V I L.
Filling your large intestine with sin, strawberry ice creams smooth, creamy flavor. With tiny chunks of cheesecake that squish between your teeth and travel down your throat like columbus, come to enslave the naitive americans that is your pride. Be warned strawberry ice cream might smell like the top of a baby's head going in, but going out it smells like artificial strawberry ***** and shame.
Popped like little tuberculosis bubbles in the saten ice cream. Is what people call bursting boba. I call them orbs of joy, the smooth surface in your mouth is always a surprise, it feels like a cyanide pill. Until it goes P O P in your mouth releasing sweet calcium lactate and artificial flavoring into your soul. They never fail to make you happy. But of course, as all happiness seems to do it eventually makes you want to throw your fat self off a cliffside and that bursting boba will be the cause of your head B U R S T I N G. on the sement.
And last but certainly not least you get to taste the savory evil that is the vanilla waffle bun, once again. And O H H this old friend is not very fun to see once again. The thick bun might be expansive on its own, but i promise it will E X P A N D in your poor stomach. And tasting all of this heinous resplendent horror together will probably **** you from an aneurysm or obesity, or diabetes, or disappointment. But all together it's perfect. And a disaster.
A perfect disaster.
Soooo, funny story actually. This was not meant to be a poem, my seminar professor assigned me to write something about the Perfact hamburger using "evocitive words" and I procrastinated untill the day it was due so I wrote this whole thing like an hour before I was sopposed to turn it in and my friend read over it and told me it kinda sounded like poetry, she then proceeded to force me to post it on here. I went a bit overboard on everything so I'm very sorry for that.
Kenya83 Feb 2017
****** my eyes
They are the windows to my soul
Share with me your beauty
All the things that make you grow
****** me with your eyes
My eyes like what they see
Share with me your weakness
And I'll see you're just like me


****** me with your scent
A heady fragrance reaches far
Etch a trigger in my brain that
Reaches memories when we part
****** me with your scent
The sweetness is divine
Like cherry blossom blooming
Or a coastal sunset night


****** my ears with what I hear
As the gentle whispers of a warm breeze
Speaks to the grass
As cheerful song is heard from the sky larks laugh
****** my ears with what I hear
With your soft voice speak of fond childhood memories ambition and dreams
Telling me lovely stories of what you believe


****** my touch
With the electricity of your body
Strong and broad like the most beautiful landscape I long to explore
Walking every path eager to learn more
****** my touch
Hold my hand in yours
We'll climb the highest mountain
Reaching breathtaking views
Guide my hands from toe to tip
Running my hands over your every inch not missing one bit


****** me with your taste
I may have saved the best till last
One taste of your lips my mouth be yearning fast
One sip does not quite quench my thirst
Im greedy I want more
Like a vino rosso you've let my tastebuds soar
Sweet fruit notes and smooth caramel
I sip you seductively and savour each delicate drop
Grounded by your earthy tones just like my fine wine
I taste your many layers which are perfectly sublime
****** me
Emily Mary Apr 2014
Nanu, I had a dream last night that you came back

From being gone almost 3 years

We embraced and I told you I missed you so much

It was bittersweet, really.

I had seen you, and then you disappeared.

Like a shadow, when the sun decides to sleep.

I could've slept eternally knowing I would've been with you; forever

I remember when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer.

You held a smooth stone and told me, "Emily this stone is going to heal me one day."

You told me how it would make you better.

I remember one thanksgiving you gave me a glass of your wine

It was, bittersweet.

Vinegary as it ate away my tastebuds
Sweet like strawberries marinading in sugar, only.. Wine is made out of grapes... You taught me that.

Its funny, you used to let me sit upon your lap when you mowed the lawn, it was my own mistake for crashing it into the fence.

It was, bittersweet.

I got to drive a lawn mower and you had to fix the fence.

I look back to how happy you were on the sun porch in the summer heat, especially when lightening would strike the area around us,

I'd hide my face in your tarnished sweater

It was, bittersweet.

This morning I stood in the snow

Inhaling the heavy smoke of my marlboro cigarette

Weeping as I stared at the sky,

Then I remembered, you didn't disappear, you just went on vacation for awhile.

It's bittersweet, really.
Ariel Good May 2013
Music of the street
Reverberates loudly
Out the dumpster,
From the tiny mouth
Of a screaming
Baby
Wrought in the wombs
Of filth, injustice,
Foggy rage.
Tongues ripped out,
On the floor, tastebuds that
Know the pang
of blue blood.
Rusty nails and overused syringes
***** the fingers,
Softly.
The people yell, maniacally,
Yet remain unheard.
Pain becomes evident,
Written on the faces
Of the unwholesome.
A wafting scent of
Their rotten morals,
Forgotten dreams,
Floats, as hot steam,
from the pavement.
Unable now
To decompose.
Across the road,
A pregnant woman holds
Her cigarette, which
Smells of cookies
And cream soda.
Jesus was enlightened,
Not too pious
For the poor.
Yet more than pain
Was written
On their faces,
Missing tongues, missing eyes.
Laid together
On the ****-stained mattress,
Feet to head and head
To feet.
Nonsense was confused
As words, that danced into
Non-platonic humps.
She kissed him, because
She wanted to feel
The texture of his brain.
Pick her up with
Golden hand, though
She may see you.
And the sad image of
Dollar bills
Inspires the mind,
Making it immobile.
Here, where the *******
Stands, more holy
Than the monastery.
Crawling, as they do,
Through unpainted,
Rented walls, like
Hungry little cockroaches,
Creeping for a bite.
The small infant still
Lays on metal, each
Moment crying softer
For warmth.
Though you will not
Hear her tomorrow,
As she’s carted off by
Garbage men
Who, each week, remove
The undesired
Remnants of yesterday.
Hope for sweet
Needles to sooner bring her
A different relief.
Life is so simple
When struggles
Are never-ending.
Mi amor pequeña,
no llores más. El fin está cerca,
aunque no entiende
mis palabras.
Though the buildings
Surrender with
Decay and the sun decides
He doesn’t want
To keep on caring
The music still plays mournfully,
And only the baby can hear.
Àŧùl Jul 2014
Baby hear what the wind says,
It carries my light voiced words,
Listen to it a bit carefully baby.

Listen to really simple words,
It's more than just lovely words,
Baby trust my loving promise.

When you come to me, lover,
Come swinging your waistline,
You're coming to me, smiling.

You shared all your warmth,
Come now ******* tastebuds,
When I call you in my arms.

Then as you fall in my arms,
I envelope you in my embrace,
We will sleep while hugging.

We cling to each other tight,
I hold your sides and pull you,
Then smile as we are asleep.

You are my ice cream cone,
My ice-cream melts in your arms,
Get lost in *our mutual love.
My HP Poem #657
©Atul Kaushal
the dead bird May 2016
breathe me in
my bittersweet taste
encompasses your tongue
the memory
of me
lingers
on your tastebuds
crave me again
crave me always

breathe me out
exhale
as I pleasure myself
I arch my back
inside the curls
of your white smoke clouds
enchanting you
to have more of me
begging you
to play with me again

I am the best
you'll ever have
I'll send waves
of *******
throughout your being
more than anyone else
without me
the *** will always be a bore
I am your delight
the tighter my hold on you
the more you need it

I'll never leave you
my body is yours
you couldn't get away
even
if you wanted to
Libby DeLand Mar 2016
Smoke gathers in the air,
Mixing with the fog of this dreery night.
Inhaling the chemicals I know will **** me,
but who cares, not me.

Alone with a bottle in my hand,
Taking another swig.
My tastebuds have gone numb.
But who's judging, not me.

Taking them inside to lay me down,
Never to see him again.
Emotions are no where to be seen.
But who's **** shaming, not me.

Vices are who we are.
Embracing them are a risk.
Monitoring my actions is obsene.
But who's changing, not me.
bobby burns Jan 2014
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)

i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error

and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles

the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons

i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace

avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme

— The End —