Slowly Sip

girl-dark-liquor

I kiss her neck,
turn her cheek
a faint shade of red.

She drinks
to my emotions;
pours another glass.

Past my glossy blue eyes,
she licks her lips;
tastes alcohol on her tongue.

I’ll sit, enamor her buzzed beauty,
until she needs me later
dazed and confused,
in need of a hand to hold home.

Body Paint

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Credit: Matthew Scherfenberg

I dip my finger into a coat of light blue,
color you like an April spring sky;
kiss your cheeks softly, turn them into
a faint shade of pink, the same
shaded color on your lips.

Following the curves of your body
down to the floor, I slowly stroke
a color of red-orange

before we finish, I sit back and stare
at my  artwork. I wash my canvas off in water,
watch the running colors puddle beneath you
as I admire your untouched immaculate beauty

She Goes

girlwhitedress
Credit: Monika Luniak

She dresses in see-through.
She’s opaque and clarity, fiction and reality;
she’s perfection.

She would never look my way.
She knows my flaws; I know she knows.
I can’t compliment her the way she deserves it.
I best express my spoken words
in creative, nonsensical poetry.

Before she walks away,
maybe I’ll keep my
ten seconds of doubt

I’ll approach her,
tell her she’s beautiful,
grab her by the hand,
put my finger on her lips
before she can respond.

All before she goes,
I go, and my illusory mind
wanders off, again.

Risqué

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Credit: Ale3andra Chan

We live buried in fiction books,
fairy tales, far-fetched dreams.

We’re tempted by the devil
guided by an angel, and walk
a line catering to both.

Call me dangerous, call me
risqué, or any word seem fit.

I’m made of
hopes and dreams,
unharmonious lust and desires
walking in a world of
sinless white dresses
and glorified Cinderellas.

I want what is wrong.
I shun what is right.
Color me with black;
call me risqué.

Uncensored

 

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Credit: Giuseppe Cristiano

 

Never would I dumb down my words,
take off their clothing,
add double-layered context, hidden messages,
and poetic flow on top of their naked beauty.

Love, flowers and smiles
are fiction, readers enjoy them.
Blood, pain and desire
is non-fiction, readers shy away.

So go ahead, criticize me
for my pure emotions and opinions;
honestly, I don’t mind.

I write reckless.
I edit nothing.
I am uncensored, raw, me

An Old Kite

Kite-heart-hd-wallpaper

wrapping in and out
of fingers, held tightly by hand.

The same hand
held by past lovers
and all the others.

Each breeze, current, flow by the ocean side
point a new direction, new journey to go.

A kite inevitably follows.
A kite is paper-thin.
A kite isn’t meant to last.

As a breeze turns to storm,
the kite slips from hand,
out to the ocean
into the hand of another.

Another lover,
another new held hand,
an old kite

 

 

Guitar Strings

best-acoustic-guitar-strings-02

Together, we can give voice to the voiceless,
sew a broken soul, and tell
stories in  minutes.

We’re missing a heart, but we
have fingers and a voice.
Not artificially, no,
the words aren’t our own nor
will they ever be, but
strum us together
or apart
and let us
tell unwritten stories
through the melody of music

Artist’s Palette

It’s fun to imagine
the taste and touch of a colors,
and not just their appearance.

Red is said to be hot and burning with passion,
but mixed with black, the color of fear,
no one would give it a second glance.

But what if red is ice-cold and blue
is ice-hot then maybe colors need
more than just sight.

As judged on appearance alone
it would be a terrible, terrible life
for a world full of colors

colors down drain

One Reader, One Writer

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between these lines,
within these margins
stories are told.
With a few letters
strung together
into words and
a hint of feeling
it can spark an emotion

and connect between
two strangers.

One reader,
one writer,
one journey both
can have,
together.

When words run out
and the lines turn blank the
reader leaves
writer writes,
and both go on
living parallel lives
miles apart.

Always connected together
through the simplest of words