love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
Haikus on First and Otherwise Meaningful Kisses (Pt. 1). Top Story - September 2018.
Dedicated to the last person I kissed. 1. (2007) On stage, in a play"I kiss my grandma like that,"said the director. 2. (2008) High school and trashy,we kissed by the boy's bathroom.It was my first fling.
By Katherine Collins7 years ago in Poets
Chest; Nuts
I know why I had them place her in another land, I would have compromised her as a young man, my touch too much, and at tenderness I would have made her & myself a mess. The tempering of my temperament was meant for another nearly as wise, I remember when I met her eyes, returned from a self induced temporary abyss, I ventured back through the door to see what I had yet to be before. What she'd make, what she'd take, what I would have put at stake, lucked out in a lack of longevity. Then was the end that made me be. So shattered, heart battered, tears fluidly flattered, wet face in haste I left this place. Amongst my favorite to try and salvage and savor it, the skills introduced to me and who I just used to be a wanted and unwanted memory. Distill the skill and kill the pain, pursued was a wizards game, a true metaphor of alchemy I took upon performing on me. About a half a Jupiter cycle later the pen I'm still holding but in the hand of a man much more golden. Now I not a specimen you might want as your best friend, For those I hold in my heart I always have their back, but I'll always let you go if you let not go your lack. This behavior a bit rude, I could be a different type of dude, but that person not becoming of what I'm becoming. I hold a love for you all forever, but I love not not being clever. I've crafted my pace into a very specific taste. I know nearly no cups could contain me and not corrode, it it a pitfall of my self paved road. I cherish the words of a psychic, who said I'd meet someone who'd like it. This sophisticated mistress I think I've come to witness. As I said certainty can not quite be, for she lives not in the same land as me. I've still fortifying to do to my footing, so her behavior is interestingly off putting. I count myself now lucky to have had loves that have completely fucked me. My senses now sharp to the smell, in every soul I can tell the mark love has made and then determine if she of interest should it be that I should trade. Trade my cherished unaccountability to see what a potential could come to be. Most potentials hold of no interest to me, their end I can see, and I'd have to pretend to be a lesser version of me just so she'd release herself into her own magnificence, and then my fakery would make it be to me of no significance. The breaking of her heart held at the whim of when I decide no longer to abide to her favorite version of him. The pain this would have her hurled in I know to well, I'd rather live in that hell than inflict it upon another, so now ever vigilant I am on who'd I'd have as a lover. I know more & more who I long for, and I've lots to do while I wait, hell I have even maybe found her and feel no the urge to escape, grab her by her nape and have her so hard it'd be a hair away from rape. Not that it's still not something I'd love to do, it's just my steps more calculated and the need to have her have my heart immediately have dissipated. The eagerness of inexperience now tame, whatever evolves I'll still be the same. I'll keep you posted if the chestnuts get roasted, if the fire fires open like I'm hoping, if she gives me chills outside with a mind that's frightful, if she can be the she that makes me delightful. Til then, let it snow, let it flow, let it go and let it show.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
Den of the Knife
She pains at another one who longs not her love, perhaps she should have been fitted for a better glove, is it agonizingly the she should have tried harder to grow into a new fit, want not growth forsake she must her oath, the pain of what she'd deem as failure an inch more deep than not seeking upkeep. Perhaps she wiser than both and to another she should have made oath. Long I not her glove still wish I she'd fit her glove. This one so worn with silent blood, the brooding opposed to what could be in bloom leaves not much room for any hand I could extend. She sits in wounds and waits for the end. I can't sacrifice myself to be her best friend, I wish I was not one of the ones she wants, the state of me in sacrifice is one that haunts, though for me it is of capacity, it's not the highest use of what I have to be. What me, not like the he that she wants me to be has at stake is lost on her by what might be her mistake. I wasn't overly there when she made her vow, half my life I've simply wondered, how? Was the long for love too blinding for it's actual finding? Bless him for his initial sacrifice, but now what's the price? Two now robbed of all they deserve, and I in the middle expected to double the mistake built from what both neglected. Wish you may my skill, but never my life, a magician with a pen in the den of the knife.
By Mr. KUTZKY7 years ago in Poets
