"underwears" poems
5? 6? 7?
(can’t be certain when exactly)
14.
17.
18.
He told me that it was okay.
Some will flinch at the touch.
Some will go into a daze.
Some - I - will crave the touch of strangers, and many at that,
to replace those days.
He told me that I was special.
I became careless and reckless
with love on accommodation sheets.
While I mistaken their meticulously placed words
for love that I thought was finally peace.
He told me that it wouldn’t hurt.
It’s 2:52am and my timeline is flooded
with girls and trials and underwears passed around in court
as if it mattered for the verdict.
The bags around my eyes are flooded
with tears of anger and hatred
as if to beg for some kind of justice.
They told me that I should be flattered.
But the thing is we haven’t been okay since.
It did hurt but we still needed ******* evidence.
We were already special before they took away our innocence.
And now all we can do is get angry and hurt and wince
at the stories like ours that social media has evinced.
We hope to god our daughters will never have a jury to convince.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 9:19 PM UTC
Eros got bored
one shimmering afternoon
he watched television
and was asking the moon
Do I have to look that deep
to find simply what I need
while thy wifes simply
plays, the food she preparates
And suddenly Psyche appeared
dressed in **** underwears
and sporty shoes
like a modern lady
stepping up infront
dancing the most simple funk
They just had a conversation
and the time abreviation
shall we now count ?
and fall in bed both
in a haste
and have some love to
grabb !
of the modern era
or postmodern blue
flower s biggest leaves
once more under the moon.
Then passion awoke
and their bodys so hot
they slide and caressed each other
gently, and these humble existences
turned sweety
sweaty.
Music sounds from the radio jazz
laying in bed and shimmering sounds
the one under the others arms
the other over the unders barm
touching , feeling, loving , dreaming
penetrating, sensing, needing
screaming.
Desirer, up in ****** zones
Into Yin and Yan silver notes
Eros over the other playing
Psyche is falling the other yearning
the love of earning
desirer shifting
together
into a big sleep
were he woke
up, seing her in
the most beautiful
dress
Gazing skys
Both left behind.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
On my bed, i eat small sugar hearts.
The window is opened, i can feel the wind blows in my back.
It's soft and relaxing.
Sat on my bed, i eat small sugar hearts
Small white heart, small pink heart.
I am in my underwears, i feel the heat of the sun on my body.
Laying on my bed, i eat small sugar hearts.
Old music play on my record.
The wind makes float my curtain above me.
It almost feel like summer time.
I eat small sugar hearts.
Small sugar hearts, pink as your lips, white as my soul.
I'm nostalgic of you.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
I remember the first time
Somebody held my hand
to spell you right in fourth grade
and in a better handwriting.
She had a long braid
that dillydallied in the law of inertia
and a mad boy
instead of playing with us
kept rushing after her.
Of little things that I remember
and I share this trait with Stephen King,
Petrichor is how you're recognized widely,
but I smelt you between the cracks of my cement roof,
my sweat when started pestering me
despite your elongated water droplets
trying to win over my body
Your shyness, which shows in your hurry
to touch the ground as soon as possible
is fought back by the shine that you give
to a lush green mountain pasture
suddenly finding itself bathed after days
like boys and girls in colleges
topped by a ray of hope
to not get exposed
to the winds that might block your nose.
Rain, Bangalore makes you unbearable
so I quit my job to come back
to where you belong best, in the
sounds of my hair being stroked
and brushed by a hand, subtle,
like a woman's hand reaching
speed of light, having converted
to energy, makeshift gestures
of sorcery, on you
coming from above,
like a snap of remembrance
of a long lost key somewhere
in the heap of clothes and underwears.
But I did mistake winds
for the sound of you
in Cubbon Park
Rain, I'm so selfish
I only talk about you
when I'm with you,
Rain, perhaps next time,
instead of writing a poem
to you, I'll just listen
to the stories you silently whisper
in the sounds of squishing
of my sole against leaky shoes
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC
The April Not An Apple
..................................
Forth it comes fourth in the year
A birth to some and death to others
The weak are broken while the meek are built in relevance
Needed you see change or you're fasting it
We struggle to make progress as challenge
Many are graduating others starve with their documents
Celebrating a New month as rent stands by the door
As they plan to marry they plan divorce
Business achievements over collapsing ones
Scandals mother-daughter over father while grannies couple with grands
Amess not to miss
Underwears used as tops swagg toppling respect
Apples are sweet April is bitter
April is turning Apple bitter
Will you be April or April
MTB
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 3:15 AM UTC
The fact that i didn't care
The lisses that i didn't share
Was just a matter of welfare
And so she sat sadly on her black chair
Waiting for my spare
So that she doesn't hear any sound
of despair
And i had gone to work somewhere
Not cheating her ,i swear
But she didn't listen not even dare
She took time to get dressed
And brush her black shiny hair
Sitting there in a short armchair
She took all her clothes even the
Underwears
Then she left me unware
I should have released all my tears
but i realised that what she did
was not fair
and i had to move on for better.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:31 AM UTC
When I think of how warm your body is, her face comes up in my mind.
When I arouse myself by recalling how your kisses traced on my skin, my brain instantly makes me imagine her face that she is feeling your touch too.
When I am saving my breath at a brisk night so that I won't be quashed by missing you, the scene that you two snuggled in my favorite blanket to warm up together in your room is also reminded.
I feel you are contaminated.
I feel your clothes, your underwears, your bed, your room that you brought her behind my back, your car, your town, the memories we created together with all of these -contaminated.
She is not your "cool" friend. She is a devil wearing a mask of a benevolent person.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC