In agony, she keeps falling,
Praying that love will catch her,
With arms outstretched, waiting.
Tag: Creative Writing
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Witness the depths of his agony; hear his weeping.
See him immersed in the throes of his suffering.
Feel the warmth, that he so desperately wished could comfort him.
Touch the tears that fell on his torn adornments.
Write down the utterances that he conveyed in listless moments.
See the illegibility of his handwriting in his last moments,
because he hadn’t slept in days — and was so tired.
Hear him speak of his plight, and how hard he had tried.
Take notice of the dark curtains in the cold room he cried.
Read the torment of the unfinished notes he wrote —
strewn on the bed where he lied.
Witness the gradual stillness of his body
and the stark motionlessness of his eyes.
Hear the piercing screams later that night,
and the constant whispers of why.
See the favorite picture he left on the dresser, of happier times.
Feel the cold raindrops, as he is carried outside.
Speak to the ones who really loved him,
and hear the echoing of his pain in their cries.
See the black veils, and feel the chill of the winds that wail
at the place where he lies. -
The depths of her soul sing to him lovingly,
when long held joyous tears run,
and impassioned utterances won’t come easily. -
With one last amorous kiss
After the last erotic tryst
She left him seductive seeds
So his heart could sprout
New gorgeous memories. -
The broken heart is a martyr of love,
giving of itself until the very end
when there is there no more reconciliation;
it is cried over, again and again.
A picture of two lovers in happier times
is turned over, thrown, and intentionally broken;
the strewn shattered glass, denotes a deep pain unspoken.
The loving heart, loved with everything it had,
until it stopped beating and could love no more.
In a cold dark room, its martyrdom is mourned.
The once loving heart is turned to stone,
and it is warm no longer, but cold.
The once warm heart is cold;
it is so cold. -
Purple passion flows through euphoric veins
after being deeply inhaled willingly into the bloodstream;
The body submits to the enraptured infusion
in eagerness to take away the pain that eyes cannot see.
Heavy breaths, in-between sensual screams
denote the intensity with every slight touch she feels.
Pleasure flows, like a perpetually spinning wheel.
Purple lips passionately kiss — stimulating desire;
Red and blue fires come together, enticing one another.
A purple moon rests in a purple sky,
over purple oceans, where purple birds fly;
After intense intimacy in purple lights,
on purple silk, purple tears are cried. -
The reticent tongue does not speak of what lustful eyes see.
Feelings are released through unsolicited dreams —
where heavily she breathes through intimate screams.
Vividness of dreams seem so real that even the scent of her is remembered.
Chanel No.5 is not there when he awakens, but somehow its fragrance lingers;
he still feels the softness of her hair through passionate fingers.
He is with another, so he tries to forget her;
the torment of his soul is his heart’s unceasing desire.
To temper his raging fire, his heart must wear blinders,
for to see her is a passionate reminder.
The woman that lies next to him, is not her;
his secret desires she will never know. -
I thought I had lost you,
but I searched my heart,
and it is there that I found you. -
Heaven, send down your rain
Replenish my withered heart
And wash away my pain. -
The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour.
Intimate Compositions 