I kiss her neck,
turn her cheek
a faint shade of red.
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.
Credit: Maggie Latham
My mind wanders at will
and watercolor sunsets
Holes in her leggings
tangled blonde hair
color-worn finger nails
A torn body,
Credit: Pat Forbes
Call me your full moon.
Pull me close. I am your gravity.
Let’s crash along the shoreline
dip and dance to the rhythmic tides,
sparkle in the moonlight,
reflect in puddle-filled faded footprints,
and tangle amongst the seaweed.
We’re the water
The way her off-white dress bottom dances
in a windstorm freezes my pass-by.
Both wind and her dress agree to hold hands.
They intertwine at different speeds,
exchange dips on the dance floor,
toss, turn, swirl around to the rhythm,
up until the wind passes on through;
the storm passes, sun peeks out, the next song resumes
her dress dances no more. My day goes back to ordinary.
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
in her aged skin, Credit: Olga Rykova
midst her lips,
branched around her eyes.
Her body an hourglass of beach-like sand
washed along ocean end;
smoothed to the surface by a midnight high tide;
reflected waters’ perfection
in morning sunrise.
Worn on sleeves,
exposed to hurt,
told to never give away.
It never misses rhythm,
sheds a tear,
or finds a reason
to beat no more
Credit: Monika Luniak
She dresses in see-through.
She’s opaque and clarity, fiction and reality;
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.
Build up an appetite
and crave for me, my words.
Salivate at the mouth,
let your taste buds lust for them.
Slowly pick apart
each metaphor, emotion, piece of
punctuation, and chose your favorite;
put my words on your plate.
Tilt back your head, mix in saliva,
keep them moist, give them flavor,
and swallow them.
Let my letters mix flow down your esophagus,
some won’t go down smooth, edges are sharp.
Once they reach the stomach, bask in their flavor;
appreciate my words from the inside and out.
Credit: Faustine Badrichani
Softly glide your fingers
along my skin
and feel my open pores
aching for your
touch, lips, and
skin against mine.
Let me taste your perfume
through sense, and hear your body
move through motion.
Keep me close; I shiver no more.
Touch me, so I tremble.
Credit: John Worthington
Her lips taste of sin
roaming for another
stranger to poison.
dark purple lipstick
dirty white sheets;
an after-taste of seduction
and alcohol lingers
on her wandering tongue.
A born sinner;
an honest woman
Credit: Monika Luniak
Draped in white lace, she sits
encircled in smoke. Ash put beside
her, burn marks on her shoulder; she
enjoys the pain, buzz.
Her dress lays lightly over her shoulder
shielding, exposing her. Surrounded
by grey-black smoke, wrist on her knee,
a dangling hand; her mind drifts away
the world encircled around her
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.
She fell in love with my words.
I couldn’t compete.
My stories, poetic flow,
and ability to ignite emotion in others
held her a captive to my craft.
My words are my catalyst;
the perfect muse to manipulate her mind,
make her fall in love, with me;
if she only knew of my intentions.
The way I can press ink to paper
made me worth something.
In her world,
she saw my beautiful
stories of love,
and fictional tales
of our future beyond the page
before she spoke real words to me.
Poetry can help land a dream girl, a beautiful one too;
I’m different; most guys don’t write.
And she’ll adore me for my talent,
until she realizes, my ink speaks of non-fiction,
and I’m more than an emotion-soaked white blue-lined page
on the inside.