I wanted to write you,
a hundred times.
A hundred times I tried,
a hundred times I started to write.
I wrote and rewrote.
I criticized and overanalyzed.
I thought I wrote the poem,
of all poems, today.
It was beautiful, magical, all rolled into one.
It was poetry at its finest, majestic.
So, poetic... It was hypnotic.
The perfect beginning, title and subtitle, for its beautiful ending.
It was everything, and more.
Everything I could hope for.
A poet's own, Poet's kiss!
But Poetry, poetry snatched it away from me.
Poetry said, no, that one's for me...
So are the next two, or maybe three!
I wrote a poem so steamy, that I felt naked.
I felt Poetry's breath up against the nape of my neck.
I felt a brush of a hand caressing my cheek, with its fingertips.
I felt like there were lips grazing the side of my neck's skin.
Poetry had me feeling some very sensual things.
She left me weak, barely able to breath or speak.
I fantasized myself into a trance, and I was blushing.
Overheated, and ready to do some unspeakable things.
I wanted to write you.
I tried a hundred times,
a hundred different ways.
A hundred words,
a hundred lines.
About the author
✨Moving In Silence; Minding My Business, In Slow-Mo 💫Yada-Yada✨
I'm here to create, in whatever way I can, whatever way that may look like. I am getting back into writing, so please bear with me.