The depths of her soul sing to him lovingly,
when long held joyous tears run,
and impassioned utterances won’t come easily.
Tag: Feelings
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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. -
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 stumble,
the cross I carry falls away from me;
the weight of its heaviness cracking the foundation.
In agony my breaths are labored.
Eyes that gaze see beauty and devastation.
Duality tears me asunder;
I am filled with love, but a timid boy no longer;
to survive, I confront the terror
with a merciless heart, and weapons of war and armor.
Many battles have hardened my once soft exterior
and have made me stronger.
I weep no more because of the abandonment of my father,
and in my weariness, I remember the love of my mother.
I lean on my mighty sword to steady myself when the blood runs
and strike the terror again with fearless rage and precision.
One day the terror came and deeply wounded the boy with the bright smile,
so the terror must face its reckoning from the rage of a broken child.
He is not merciful, nor will he hear the terror when it cries;
He will continue to strike with fury, even after the terror dies.
He will slay the terror — and the terror’s lies,
to revive the soul of the boy that once brightly smiled.
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I thought I had lost you,
but I searched my heart,
and it is there that I found you. -
How beautiful you are in my eyes.
If only you knew that I see past
what others may think about you;
If only you knew that I see much
more than your physical attributes;
If only you knew your own value;
If only you knew that I refuse
to give up on you;
If only you knew that in the safety of my arms
I want to wrap you;
If you could only see through
my eyes what I see in you;
If only I could take away
the depths of pain in you;
You glow in my heart;
I see the diamond that is you.
When you walk by, they lust after you;
but in my soul I hold your heart—
and the essence of you.
I love you;
Your pain is my pain,
so until your heart is made whole,
I will weep for 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. -
I give myself to you wholly and totally
With my scars, faults, and beauty.
Take all of me and love me,
Or reject me utterly in my vulnerability.
Intimate Compositions 