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I lay my heart out in the sunlight as we wake
lips to fill your mouth with kisses
my soul to take.

Huddle up & hold me, in these old quilted sheets
or a motel room, coffee shop
or even in a bus stop on the street.

Don't worry about the details, don't think I'd ever leave you alone
For you my love, are the only thing
I've ever felt was home.
come close




                                                                  lay next to me


I need to feel





                                                                     important


So, stay close






                                                                     remain next to me







                                                                                                                              I need to feel




    important.



                                                      Holding all





                                                                                                  the weight in my life



then you turn and you walk away from me
City and Colour - Weightless
Love... Quite edible one could imagine.
Some may be famished beyond imaginary boundaries due to his or her own taste.
From sweet kisses, to bitter love, to varieties of flavor that spices up our lives.

We drink lover's spit if we care enough at the moment we see them, the edible ones because,
quite frankly the taste is so grand...

Only through time will we be seasoned to find perfection,
Until then it lingers, as our taste buds crave for more.
Something so tasteful that...
a man would swallow his pride,
a woman would eat her doubts,
a new born will sip it's nourishments,
a free food that no one could ever get full from...

Yet if prepared in the wrong conditions,
love could spoil and poison you, harm you,
destroy you...
So make the best out of the ingredients that you have,
To make it a grand feast that lasts,
before it all expires and goes to waste....

Let this marinade... Before it becomes your food for thought.
Let your cravings state that you are what you eat... lovely soul food.
**I wrote in bold for bold taste. Lol**
A collaborated poem by myself and Kenneth Pope
Flu
Ban flu,
Man flu.

Aching head,
Bleary eyes,
Death lurking,
In disguise,
Under the bed,
What a surprise,
******* Death,
I’m going to rise.

No I’m not,
I flop down,
Head cushioned,
In eiderdown,
In the curtains,
Face of a clown,
In medication,
Senses drown.

I’m not dying,
I am in a state,
Snot and phlegm,
I ******* hate,
No latent desire,
To *******,
No appetite,
I’m losing weight!

I’m getting better,
Weak as a lamb,
A hot toddy,
A wee dram,
Man flu is real,
Not a sham,
Getting better,
The **** I am.

The fifth day,
What a-to-do,
So had enough,
Of feeling blue,
Death lost,
So go *****,
Getting dressed,
I am its true.

Man flu,
Ban flu.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Flu is sweeping Britain, brushing cobwebs from subliminal suicide, instilling the zest to live in some, carrying away the old and weak, best I can do, for now. Hope my poems improve with my health.
By the shores of the Dry-sea.
Beyond salt-crusted sands,
In deep, deep, caves,
You will find dragons.
Long ago, in ages past,
Men and women were selected,
An honour to ride these great beasts.
Winged creatures of giant stature,
Sharp of tooth and talon.
Then foolishly, the dragon-riders fought.
The battles, ****** and deadly,
Swooped across scorched skies.
Then the dragons took their leave,
And burrowed deep into the earth,
Where they slept away the centuries.
Occasionally one would surface,
In a lake, a fjord or a loch,
Emerging by secret ways,
To see if mankind still made war.
Until at last, mankind has long gone.
The Earth is dry: blisteringly hot.
Perfect for dragons to bask,
Upon the salt-crusted sands,
By the shores of the Dry-sea.

© Paul Chafer 2014
I just enjoy the notion of dragons, in our vast unfathomable Universe, they are sure to exist: somewhere.
just when the bitter
is not on the edges
of my spoiled food,

but my repast totaled and complete,

just when the heartache of living
infects the legs the head even
the fingertips I abuse leaking all I fear here

when composing,

just when I read another 1000 daily new tryings to say me bad sad utilizing
moon June eyes scarred scraps of love and pity-me broken rants,
cants of can't,
trending my deep desired purpose of delighting and inspiring
you into the thunderous waterfall of never ending poetic oblivion,

and I wonder what the hell am I doing here
(spending countless hours, draining personal  batteries)

then you tell me that some words,
words they say I wrote,
apple-core me
pushing momentarily out/aside the fear, the embattled hubris,
the anguish, the desperate wishes, you tell me just this:

"This filled a need I had no name for"

I am weeping only, ashamed and unashamed,
redeemed, you used my coupon, and spent it
on redeeming me
in a manner unknown and here I am composing once more having sworn I am done here,
only now to decompose myself in privy chambers for my dearest ones,
for too many words come to me, telling me of their hurting,
used up by overuse, crusted cliches,
drowning in images that no longer reflect in any mirror,

and you tell me that just what I felt,
wrote down precisely that,
one must  always
ask for more than you can give,
my communication into your sensations fulfilled a need,
some thing that

"filled a need I had no name for"

and it occurs me this is the precise atomic second
to put away my deckling paper, put the pencil down,
lock up that old sewing box, pink and white striped, where the pained and joyous monthly storage fee needs payment due,
where are kept yellowed poem-papers that they won't hesitate to throw out when cleaning out my last effects,
needs shutting down,
the last episode of this personal reality show,
"breaking __" (fill in the blanks with un blanched original sounds)

what more needs doing,
I inquire of my narcissism,
capstone, the keystone brick preserved,
what more could ever be achieved
having tendering myself raw and distinct, fine and finished,

there is no more I could ever write, or need to,
and I am contented in a way that my I ego
happily announces it's surrender and the end is not lacking in finality,
for this is the way to go out,

for you have given me something
weeping only, ashamed and unashamed, at last,
at the longingest at last,
filling a need I think knew existed and now no longer,
for who cannot say I am not whole,
holy satisfied after seeing this gift,
for you have all gifted me something I dare not,
even, did not know to how ask for,
nor know that I could ever give,
out loud and conscious,
and now need never ask for again,
but give    
again and again
and again
Thank you Emily Rose of Texas.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/593181/ask-for-more-than-you-can-give/

Poetry by the numbers (in too many ways) diminishes me.
I cannot cease to write., but I paint by the letters, not by the numbers. These numbers corrupt, so now I must learn to be oblivious, and not obvious.
This poem is me exiting stage right-aligned, but not left.

"It is not how you start, but how you finish"
Not done, just private.
To a new standard am I held, everything new from now on must
fill a need we had no name for...
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