Category Archives: Creative Writing – Poetry

All pieces of creative work in poetic form published in MUSE Magazine.

Poems by Blanche Darbord

Images: © Blanche Darbord

Glass ship of Goodbyes

I took the sadness from my heart;
I took a bottle by its neck.
A storm was raging in the clouds;
A cloud came carrying all my hurt.

I took a locket from my chest;
I took a bottle by its neck.
The waves still swam beneath my feet,
Its wails slicing my beating breast.

I took a letter soft with dew;
I slit the bottle by its neck.
And in the bottle sadly placed,
My words of lasting love to you.

A storm was raging in the clouds;
A cloud came down upon the sea.
And in the mourning waters went,
My letter, floating in your shrouds.


dark sunset
The Delusional Philosopher

The Delusional Philosopher

A wise man reads,
His white beard long
Beneath his chin.

He reads of sun and moon,
Of oceans dried too soon.
He reads of lost ships
and long-forgotten crypts.

A young, ignorant boy,
Who cannot read
And never touched a book:
He runs under the sun,
Sleeps under the moon,
And sails on sparkling seas.
The old man,
Wise as he was,
Wrote about the world.

His wise words are
“philosophical”, “timeless”
                         – We say

Yes, they are timeless,
Truthful by fantasies,
Ignorant of life.


stone on beach
The Promise of Stones

The Promise of Stones

In the New Land waited
A man
Sitting before an ageing
Ocean wide.
“Wait for me,” she had said.
“I shall come back,”
She had promised.

But the ocean turned to mist
And the man’s eyes turned to foam,
And he wailed across the sea,
A last solitary plea.

The ocean that would carry
His love was, oh, so empty.
Lo! She would not come
If he had but dirt to pawn!

So, above the cliffs,
For her he chose,
A garden of whens
A forest of ifs.

And on that land across the sea,
Rich with uncertain certainty,
He carved treasures into the stone;
He carved his future in a home.

But lo! ‘Twas not a house he built,
‘Twas a castle that proudly stood,
Lofty towers eyeing the waves,
Strong stones with bliss to save.

And, across the carved ramparts,
History wore its mighty crown,
Mysterious monoliths
Majestic obelisks
Stood in harmony
In this kingdom by the sea,
Waiting. Waiting for its queen.

For hours, days, and years,
He worked and toiled,
Worked with hands alone
And alone built a castle tall.

How… remains a mystery,
Its knowledge buried in the sea.

Yet, today there remains,
This kingdom by the sea.
‘Tis named Coral Castle
And stands, waiting still.


Image: © Creative Commons, license link here

Author: Laure Cepl


Doll locked in a closet, longing alone

for the one who’ll save her.

Dull are the days for the fair maiden of ivory skin,

spinning around, trying to find angles in a full moon shaped room.

High in that tower, deep is her sorrow.

The Lady they call Rapunzel.


Red lips, out of her velvet mouth come sounds of the

rarest beauty. Errant in this waste night and day, I may have lost

my way. Riding astray from the path,

her voice awaked and guided me.

I stared at this fortress. No entrance, damsel in distress.

I called her: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”


Mild voice, “Milady” she called me, “climb up to meet me.”

And she let down her long-braided hair.

They were garnished with flowers – violets, violets everywhere.

Once I got up there, I found my Sappho. “Oh, my dear,

give me love!” She cried, “for I have been so lonely.”

“Music”, she breathed, “let’s make music” she whispered in my ear.


Far away they will hear us, our delightful symphony.

On her grand piano, we get lost in the sheets,

I let her play her favorite sonata in F minor,

chords, arpeggios and rubatos – her fingers run free on my keyboard.

Every touch makes all the wires vibrate in me,

a whole note followed by a rest – a sigh.


Solitude shared, four hands duo every night,

for seven months, seven weeks and seven days,

we have learnt to play each other’s melody.

Our metronomes are fully in tune, emotions in crescendo,

I follow the motive, pitch variations, we broke the sordina.

This song still resonates in my heart, after all these years.


Lamentations, alas, you came back. I climbed the

ladder too many times, once I had to fall.

You listened to what they said. How such a delicate ear

could pay attention to the cacophony of their voices?

Remember, it is they who put you in that tower,

cursed, they judged, banished the masterpiece you were.


Since, “sweet flower”, scared of blooming you pushed me down that stage,

cutting our bond with scissors, watching me

sink. In the brambles, blind I still ramble,

playing requiems yearning for a Muse lost long ago.

That is what she taught me about Music. If you take out her heart,

Only art survives.


A Mother’s Ordeal

Image: Wheat Field with Crows (Vincent Van Gogh, 1890). SourceCC License

Author: Antonino Mangiaracina


Cities have strict demands that rule the men
With blind reality they act, and more!
A Man must pray to God and say Amen.
A Man must hold his faith and start a war.
In a family order has no joys;
A Man must honour and respect his Father.
As soldiers shall behave the dutiful boys;
A Man must love and look after his Mother.
The picture of a man’s girl now is dim,
For good he chose to sacrifice his pearl
But an empty clam is all is left to him.
After all, a Man reveals to be a girl,
Whose only weakness was to be too good,
Because her world was no place for childhood.


What does it mean to be a flying bird?
Is it to feel the wind beneath your wings?
Perhaps, to say, there is no way or word,
But over you, no one: skies with no kings.
Then why do men imprison birds in cages?
From down below they hunt and grab the prey,
In rapid moments that persist for ages;
Attracted by such high splendour were they.
What does it mean to be a happy kid?
Is it to play with friends and whom you trust?
Perhaps, she does not know, since what he did,
A man in school there was who taught disgust.
Amazed I am to know how strong you are;
Thank you, my sweet Angel, you are my star.


So rare, a diamond’s beauty seems unreal;
So clear, its purity bewitches the mind;
But still we must remember its ordeal,
Too often is its value left behind.
It has endured the pressure of the world,
And time for long a while has passed it by.
Its lines and soul, carved from the underworld,
Now form a nature that could never lie.
As precious as a diamond is my mother,
She is the kindest I ever met:
Her love, sincere like no other.
For her, I promise to never forget.
O’ diamond mine, I wish you all the best,
May your clear eyes reflect from east to west.

(no title)

Image: Lighthouse at Stora Bält (Anton Melbye, 1846). SourceCC License

Author: Antonino Mangiaracina

No hut, in life and fear, except reason;
And yet men voted other ways, by choice;
They turned themselves in painters each season,
Their never-ending lines cover the voice.
A whispering blank canvas with a truth
Too hard to hear is coated in lies;
The bright colours pursue mercy and youth,
Delusions all, since everybody dies.
It may appear untrue, but all is real;
Afraid is every man of the unknown;
So he shapes what he sees to his ideal,
As beliefs builded not to feel alone.
People must learn luxuries are no need
And put an end to rules we never agreed.

Poems by Guy Da Costa

Image: “Footprint” by Conal Gallagher. SourceCC License

Author: Guy Da Costa

Christmas Spirit

I am not a poet and never will be.
I lack rhythm. My rhymes are poor and so is my poetry.
Scroll back up or down to the last or next prodigy.
Although you shouldn’t, you keep watching into me.
Outside I wrote my cleverest mandalas in pee
Spring blew them away. We could not agree.

Tracks and remains are deeper in the snow
And better kissers under the mistletoe.
It is Christmas and I have to let you know
That with all this fondue you should pray to a crow.
Your car has drowned and they’d help your child grow
In a world of funny fumes and they will never have to row.

As you join your hands thinking about Crow-Jesus
You ask yourself why Santa and his circus
Offer life while they’re as sterile as a cactus.
Black feathers snuggle to Mount Olympus
The crystals who now sleep in a hot bubbly mattress.
You alone and happy saved the whole world and us.

Snow is dying so I get in my car
And waste some gas hoping to outlive
The Greatest Addressee banned from any bar.
I sit, change my seat again, drink and try to dry heave
my pale songs of pee, bad even with a guitar.
I forgot to put on my licence what to believe.

Snow melts and I want to be drunk Penguins.

From Ludlow to Eternity

I have never been fond of fancied worlds
So imagine how I feel about the outside one.
On the way from Ludlow to Eternity
My shoes went flat between
Dixville Notch and Millsfield
Because I kicked a cat. He cried booze and moonshine.

My nails started bleeding and my feet
were shrinking. I fell and the hairy sky
swam in red feathers hanged by its handy ankle.
I ate a lot of plums hence my blues could see
A veteran elephant and a bold donkey.
Concerned by my situation, they cut my legs off.

The elephant threw me on his back.
His feet wounded by grey feathers
weighing heavily on the ground.
He was protective and carried me
To an even older elephant cemetery.
He crawled in a hole. I drilled the donkey.

They would talk loudly about circles and lines and repeat again.
I met all their donkey-friends that would guide me to Eternity.
My mechanic arm would stretch and once I saw a ditch.
They were so obnoxious and never noticed the gap.
Instead of a final leap, I beheaded this jackass
with anecdotal facts and only seventy dollars per year.

Laying on the ground I met a companion. His name was
Thunder Jr. and he brought me to Eternity.
As I waved him away, I understood that there will always be
an elephant waiting for a cemetery,
and in the shrewdest snow lost in the crowd another donkey.
Yet, I am still legless, hopeless and lonely.

Twitter Tirade

Image: © Corey Raymond Heimlich

Author: Corey Raymond Heimlich

Dude, this guy is straight up cre-cre…

All this got me like hey yo, this fool for real?

Dat one crazy gringo bra

oye ese güey está bien loco…qué desmadre


I’ve dabbled in everything, from real estate to reality TV,

I even founded a university giving phony degrees.

I’m not racist I own a few Harlem brownstones,

Can’t wait to take the White House and the joystick of drones.


I’m fed up with all this political correctness,

I’m white and I’m proud and you know it’s infectious.

I’m not afraid to call it by its name,

It’s Islamic terrorism and Muslims are to blame.


White men with ties, now that’s whom to trust,

We’re Christian and righteous and can turn you to dust.

I kill it with charm and law and order,

I’ll build a great wall along the Mexican Border.


Brought up by my bootstraps, I’m a working-class hero,

I’ll make everything great again, starting from zero.

All politicians lie, it’s part of this business,

I’ll make sure everyone has a tremendous Christmas.


Twitter them this and twitter them back,

Shovel them shit just make sure it’s whack.

I might add that I love a good artichoke,

The world isn’t warming it’s a ludicrous hoax.


Doesn’t my daughter have a “nice figure?”

I just wish her knockers were a little bit bigger.

I love women for everything they’re worth,

I mean at the end of the day, I don’t think I could give birth.


Did I leave anything out? sometimes I get sloppy,

The Mexicans at my hotels make great chicken teriyaki.

The media lies about me, it’s very unfair,

I’m the president for all Americans, I got here fair and square.


Of course, I’m all for the LGBTQ,

It’s a nice club they’ve got, I just wish it were true.

Of course Black Lives Matter, I listen to Tupac,

His star’s next to mine on Hollywood’s sidewalk.


And one last thing about the KKK,

I don’t see a problem and I don’t wear a toupee.

Putin and I will be the best of buds,

We’ll rid the world of these terrible thugs.


Can you believe it they voted for me?

We’ll be lucky to be left with a pile of debris.

What’s wrong with me this sounds like Dr. Seuss,

A Grinch and a conman is on the loose.


It is with great sadness that I bid you adieu,

I must head downtown for an important rendezvous.

Pondering all I’ve said from the top of Trump Tower,

I plan my next tweet over a tremendous whiskey sour.

Poems by Miljan Micakovic

Image: © Miljan Micakovic

Author: Miljan Micakovic


Inside and Outside


Marshall went to the shop,

To by some milk and meat,

He even ate some Pop-

Corn while starring at the cashier’s tit-


-le, yes, she was “cashier in chief”.

Marshall was greatly surprised

For her face led in disbelief,

Indeed, lacking an eye under the left lid.


He tried to makes sense in vain.

He paid the goods and, outside,

As he was peeping again,

He perceived what was blackness inside.


The Eraser


The woken claim a piercing speech

Crossing, cutting the morning glass

How long will it take for each

To realize away they pass,


To see that the sleeping never cry,

Nor that any sound drifts in the air

And yet all throw far away an eye,

With the other at themselves they glare,


With the never-ending question,

“But what is my name?”

Out loud and fishing for attention,

They shout with no sense of shame.


A Light-hearted self


To feel like a monster, a common fate,

Falling on the head completely unprepared,

Seizing all, mind, hands and eyes

Forcing all to follow a soft voice:


The inner one, the one that comes along

That is familiar but to you alone.

Yet a pleasure flowing everywhere

For an instant so real yet so true;


At last, pulling you down from

Where all aroused, you shall see

That you’re flying back and away.

Perhaps, that wasn’t the wrong way.


The Mess


Oh boy, my paper’s black,

The ink even got to the back!

What a mess I’ve done!

All that work made for none.


Okay, Okay let’s do it over

Again, but this time no shower,

No diluvian rain of chemical

Texture, baby, let’s get clinical!


Precise and neat, straight and clear

Like an athlete throwing a spear

Throw, throw my thought throw

On the paper that must be hollow.


The Smoky House


Among others around it,

Almost identical; same number

of floors, same wideness and height,

All having little flames burning in

through the windows, none but one,

This house, pours the grey smoke.


Among those lights, it perfumes

The air without invading, harassing

The senses, yet distinguishable and ironical.

The fire, alone, becomes the father.


Childless, bright and clear, fires

burn, consume the smoky air.




A straight line above another, those rails Stop where the page ends, although no pages are the same, nor the paper, nor the ink And the words look odd because none are Thought but from the white alone.

“Sir Gawain and the Green Dragon” by Kit Schofield

Image: © Creative Commons, link here

Author: Kit Schofield


Sir Gawain and the Green Dragon

Great deeds were done during Arthur’s reign,

Many battles were fought and great Knights slain,

Many demons downed and Vikings vanquished,

Many fabled foes of their heads relinquished.


None battled braver than gallant Gawain,

Who always returned fresh from a war,

Never he bled, nor his armour stained,

No wiser a warrior I ever saw.


On the greenest day in years,

A peasant man came pleading to Sirs,

He told a tale of a vicious snake,

Arthur discarded his fears as fake,

But great Gawain took up his spurs.


Immediately he rode at full speed,

Sought out the farmer’s golden field,

But mounted on his splendid steed,

The only gold in sight was his shield.


He asked the man the meaning of this,

Where are his famous fields and flocks?

They had been burnt by lizard’s kiss,

That scaled beast born out of the rocks.


Our hero hastened towards the mountain,

Determined to slay his fiendish foe,

And at the summit he saw him waiting,

Surrounded by the melting snow.


What began as mere a drop,

Came over Gawain a mighty wave,

A crushing cascade that never stopped,

A trick played by the nasty knave.


This liquid onslaught did not dampen his heart,

He was overcome by a different blast,

Nothing could block this flaming dart,

Gawain was swift but the flare too fast.


Having for this final time,

Put himself in the line of fire,

He’s stolen from us in his prime,

Burning in Nature’s funeral pyre.


Momentous – Poem by Olena Danylovych

Image: Mountain © Olena Danylovych

Author: Olena Danylovych



Is this a mountain that I see before me?

So vast and powerful its face.

It rises from the earth below me,

Cemented in history’s trace.


In summer when the weather’s fair,

It flourishes with life and leaf.

In winter when its front is bare,

It stands resistant to insidious grief.


Sunshine and blue sky are best

For mirthful and sweet disposition,

But earthquake is the final test

Of mountains’ sturdy disposition.


In shrieking gales and howling rain,

When lightning splinters our soft core,

The mountains stand to entertain

This bleating that they’ve heard before.


The solid stump is evidence

Of many centuries of pain endured.

Yet sharp and creviced stony peaks

Attest to readiness for more.


But rains will end and sunshine come

And hardened face will turn from stone.

And tender greens will whisper out,

Breathing new life to hardened bone.


While frozen evils strike the land,

And petrify each living thing,

The inner stump will surely stand,

Awaiting warmth for flowering.


It’s no small wonder, then, to turn

To these great palaces of rock;

Through times of ravages and mourn,

And other feats of absent luck,

They’ll shed like feathers their adorn,

And still maintain their stalwart stock.

“Winter is Coming” by Kit Schofield

Image: © Deviant Art Bianca Masnikac, link here

Author: Kit Schofield

Winter is Coming


I feel its bite upon my face,

At first it merely nibbled my nose,

But now this hound begins to race,

Through all my spine, my head and toes.


The mountains are the first to fall,

The springs grow cold and cease to trickle,

We must retreat to fire and hall,

Escape this killer, oh so fickle.


As its chill extends to our home,

We hide inside our stone-made keeps,

This cold assassin continues to roam,

Surrounded! All around it creeps.


Our roses have long since faded,

The birds forgotten how to sing,

Our colourful trees appear so jaded,

It’s almost here. Winter’s coming.



Poems by Miljan Micakovic

Image: The Red Horseman, © Carlo Carrà. Image available here.

Author: Miljan Micakovic


Under the Olive Tree

(After Babel’s rabbi Osii)

My life earned treasure offered to my sons,
Hopes and fears invade my weary mind,
Will I see their success while turning blind?
Betrayed, shunned, and burnt solely by my suns?

A passionate heart to my woman I gave.
Not only wife, nor life-long living friend,
She pumped, for I survived until the end.
How I could be the man I am so brave?

To you my Faith, my Hopes, Oh, all have gone.
Although I called; Although I’d almost lost…
I wrongly wondered God, you wouldn’t spawn.

The soil that raised, the state that brought me up,
I served, I paid for rights and liberty.
I own myself and drink in my own cup.

All of this, All around; I won’t be free.
I’ve just a place under an olive tree.


Red Blacks

Taken, broken, chased, beaten
Sold, bought, traded, whipped,
Raped, killed, bred, shipped,

Betrayed, burnt, shut, stolen,
Judged, used, kept, crushed,
Shot, locked, hit, robbed,

Lynched, arrested, sent, shaken
Stripped, accused, mocked, mobbed,
Bent, corrupted, tricked, fucked,

And lived.


The English Professor

(For Digby Thomas)

Neat and clean, a handsome bear.
Arrived on time, and set his mind.
Plain and strong was his speech,
while standing fierce and bound
to the ground, to the stage of sounds.

Not a word too fast, not a sign too loose,
He could whisper, yet all was bold.
Even silence made us change our thought.

And yet, the awful end had to come,
Shrill ringing made him stop;
His eyes fixed, and ready to leave,
While we always longed for more.


Nothing has to do with being right;
Neither you nor I decide it.
What then does set the light?
Asking questions, watching not to spit?

Damn those Greeks, giving their Δόξα,
Drinking wine; inventors of the lounge
Where the laziest and cruellest drinks vodka,
Tasteless, hollow fluid, making you scrounge.

Then fights, so proud of his moves,
leaving the victim, living the dream,
Marching like a needle in the grooves,
As sweet as taking a child’s ice-cream.

The birth, the child, the parents behind them,
All know there’s something out of rhetoric’s stem.

The Student at the Window

She had a pale face, blond hair;
Sitting, she looked at the bad weather,
Despite the rain, she offered a glare.

It was as strong as her will,
‘Cause she wanted a day without rain,
Movement without sound, light in her heart.

Then, slowly, the dark clouds disappeared,
And her face became warm,
And like the dawn her hair was shining.

A Humiliation

Let him beat the shit out of me,
Put me in his mould of depravation
And I, barely breathing under his fists,
will only passively face my injury.

Let him command and rule all the space,
Pour concrete on my bare skin,
A raging glare writing his strength,
while I offer my face, a white page.

Let him set dawn, dusk, light, and darkness,
Crease my skin with his red eraser,
Decide my wakening, the last beam of light,
I’ll wander, yet with no feet under my head.

For I do not abide by time and space,
My only kin is the metal of a Calder.

Eye Contact

How interestingly walking down the streets
Brings nothing but a constant breeze,
People, wind, pass by looking away,
Yet near and firm around your gaze.

All the sudden, as your eye beams
A darker shade, a black hollow ring
Around its frame, All the sudden,
Straight as thunder does everyone glare.

There true faces, such glimmering balls,
Bouncing from side to side, Breaking
The shimmering glass of indifference,
The distance that makes us individuals.

No longer every move blows its air,
But all is centred on our share.

Computer Writing (more or less)

Typing, typing down the screen,
Fingers push not an inch of ink.
Words are formed, regular and bold,
But who’ll give them a soul?

I see, you sit, proud of your bright,
Shining fruit, proud of nothing else,
But sharing a common, colourless tool.
Are you only a shape in the mist?

When at school, your small lines desired,
Round and straight, folded with your art,
Such unique were these tiny scribbles,
Were you ashamed, or else betrayed?

No led, no screen will belong to you,
While you vanish under the computer writing.

Sort of Poems

Image: © brewbooks on Flickr.

Author: Céline Stegmüller

Despite knowing you for many years

I rushed into your life like

a comet rushes through the sky;

Like a comet, driven by its fire.


I rushed into your life

maybe too fast, maybe too much. Light or fire?

I rushed into your life

supposing you’d be happier.


Like a comet driven by its fire

Light, like sudden realization.

It seemed to me only right

that I should rush into your life.


I’ve been here silent,

watching you from far away

And suddenly you looked at me

And I fell from the sky.


You had me falling for you

But am I burning too bright?



People around


I have people

surrounding me


mixing, twirling, screaming

a whole lot of silences

dying to be heard.

Thoughts drowning in ink,

paper hugging lives.


I follow the wind

I drink sunset light


on the lake’s mirror.

Of Her – Poems by Edgars Mezaraup

Image: Painting © Anete Mezaraupa

Author: Edgars Mezaraup

“Of her”


Lipstick Red


Even drunk

I think.


Arousing shapes in disco shades

Tempt my eye and shake my mind,

Still I sit and still I languish

For the crimson red and, yes,

I think.


I don’t think.

I never think of you

I only dream of you,

Sweet as a sweet dream

Are you.


Little Clouds


To where the mushrooms grow

I shall go

Forget the world as it is.


Too much of imbecile is being done

Too many a hope – forlorn.


Naught but red flows in the heart,

Naught but red on the lips and puffy eyes

Make me lost.


Truly, if cuteness something means, it means

Those little clouds when you smile.

Poems by Elvis Coimbra Gomes

Image: source

Author: Elvis Coimbra Gomes


I remember how I got here,
How it surrounded me with fear.
Its mesmerizing texture,
Smooth layered dust luster,
Appealed my curiousness
To a certain excess.
The sun’s sweltered light,
Blinding and melting my sight,
Shined on the uncracked mud’s crust,
Tannish sand’s rust.
Eager to examine
This deep sludge-filled basin,
I plunge my hand
Into the surface of the sand
And lost my balance
Along with my prudence.
Sinking down into the unknown,
I feel how it wrings every single bone.
Now stuck in the dense viscosity
Of flabby, pulpy, mushy consistency,
I try to get out of this trap
But liquefaction fills the empty gaps.
It stifles my body
With a breathtaking anxiety,
And I see no other solution
Than freezing my body’s motion.
The more I fight,
The more I sink
Captured in this thick scare,
I see myself in sorrow despair.



His feet are dragging on the floor,
I stand up and I applaud loudly in response to
This scrubbing sound (which) is raping my ears.
This girl, who cheated on me; she is aware of how
My sand filled eyes glimpse a tiny ray of light. Too bright.
She tore my heart. I’m stuck with this image where
The door handle is turned to the right. He leaves the room.
Two tongues sway the betrayal dance on saliva ground.

Silence surrounds me again. And I –
I’m pregnant! I feel an inner pressure against my testicles.
The door opens. His feet…The comeback.
Cut my belly with a saw and give birth to this being!
The noise! My dried mouth can’t yell at him.
What is that? Not human! This Xenomorph crawling
The water bottle, rustling plastic,
From the inside of my belly and grasp your face ferociously.

He uncaps it, drinks a Nano-gulp, followed by a sigh of relief.
I see people dropping down from the skyscrapers.
Hhhhhha… The sigh of great achievement.
The fall decays their bodies and their rotten odors invade
My nose! It burns. A reeking smell in the room.
The entire city! A virus! No adults survive, while
Chemical beauty is in the air; substances interact with skin and hair.
Childish anarchy is spread like fire. Power and chaos!

He arranges his hair in front of the mirror.
The reflecting surface is waving liquid silver. Suddenly, a bony hand
Goes out of the room and closes the door.
Springs out of it and seizes my neck with
His floor sweeping steps fading in the corridor…
Its flesh boring, long fragile fingers. I’m screaming in the crimson stream:
Good morning! I’m awaken with abused senses.




The more I understand
That I don’t understand
Your philosophy,
The more I understand
That it’s impossible
To fully understand.
This understanding
Of misunderstanding
Brings me further
To understand.
But then again,
I will misunderstand
To understand again,
That it’s always already
In understanding
The misunderstanding.




In this clear night,
I took you in my arms.
Touched you.
Felt your smooth body.
Slid my hand on your sexy curves,
Up to your neck.
Pressing my fingers on stimulating points
And sweeping my other hand
On your thick straight, smooth soft hair.
Your sound…
You like it.
I like it.
I will make love to you
Under the eager voyeurs’ sight,
And we will resonate our passion
Through our rhythm.
Maybe tonight
Is the night
You will touch my soul.
Again. Skin shivering.
As you know
Performance anxiety persists
Every single time,
Pounding my heart
Out of my chest.
This fear of unexpected failure
You don’t care.
That’s why I love you.
It’s not worth to imagine a life without you.
For eight years you’ve been there,
Picking up my pearly tears,
Filled with untold secrets. With pain.
I’m completely naked in front of you.
You will never cheat on me, never hurt me.
Though sometimes I hurt myself
When I go too hard on you,
When passion boils in our bodies,
From our chest, down our spines.
But you like it, as I like it.
The lights are on.
The crowd is yelling.
The stage is ready for us.
I will rock your body.
Let’s make harmonious love
All night long…