I stood at the door, I was about to go
You looked at me with your brown eyes, like you were a bit surprised
I haven't seen you for a long time
I missed YOU terribly!
I wanted you to know, you're the ONE!
So please, don't let me go!
I thought to myself...
I wished you felt the same way
Did you?
Well, it was hard for me to tell
My hands were sweating and my heart was beating fast
You were just standing there and said - Go if you must!
But I didn't want to leave, I wanted you to stop me!
To tell me you need me and that YOU love me!
Our night together meant to me a lot
Every time I think about it makes me hot
You then kissed me so passionately and whispered to my ear...
Stay with me tonight
Stay with me here!
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress2 days ago in Poets
Whisper of the soul
In the quiet of the night, where shadows softly creep, Whispers of the soul arise, from the depths they leap. A heart encased in silence, secrets buried deep, Yearns to find a voice tonight, through dreams it starts to seep.Beneath the veil of darkness, where stars like diamonds gleam, The poet finds a sacred space, a sanctuary of dream. Here the words flow freely, like rivers to the sea, Confessions of a restless heart, seeking to be free.The moon, a silent witness, to the outpouring of the soul, Illuminates the paper, where the poet takes control. Each line a breath, a heartbeat, each stanza a release, From the chains of guilt and sorrow, finding sweet peace.Ink bleeds onto paper, like tears upon a face, Each word a step towards redemption, a journey to embrace. The past, a heavy burden, begins to slowly lift, As the poet pours out honesty, a most precious gift.Confession is a tender act, a moment fraught with grace, A mirror to the inner self, revealing every trace. Of hopes and fears, of joys and pain, of love both lost and found, A tapestry of human life, in words it is unbound.With every stroke of pen, the shadows start to fade, The light of truth cuts through the dark, where secrets once were laid. The heart, now lightened of its load, begins to gently soar, Freed from chains that held it down, it finds the open door.In the silence of the night, a voice begins to rise, A melody of honesty, sung to the starlit skies. The poet’s heart, once burdened, now beats with steady calm, For in the act of confession, it finds a healing balm.The power of the spoken word, of truths that must be told, Transforms the pain of yesteryears into a heart of gold. Each line a thread of courage, woven into verse, Creating from the wounds of life, a blessing, not a curse.The night grows ever darker, but the heart is filled with light, For in the act of baring all, the soul takes fearless flight. It dances with the memories, it sings with newfound grace, It finds within the shadows, a bright and sacred space.Confession is an art form, a canvas for the soul, Where every hue of human life finds its rightful role. The poet paints with honesty, each stroke a vital part, Of the masterpiece of living, created from the heart.In this act of revelation, there is a strength unveiled, A testament to human spirit, where love has not yet failed. For in the darkest moments, when truths are hard to speak, There lies the greatest courage, in the hearts of those who seek.To find within the silence, a voice that's pure and true, To speak the words of healing, to bid the past adieu. The poet’s pen is mighty, a sword against the night, With every line of confession, it brings the soul to light.The dawn begins to whisper, the night prepares to yield, The poet’s heart is lighter, with every truth revealed. For in the act of confession, a miracle is found, A soul reborn in honesty, now walks on sacred ground.So let the words flow freely, let the soul unburdened be, For in the sacred act of truth, lies the path to liberty. The poet’s heart now knows this, in the quiet of the night, That confession is a blessing, a source of purest light.
By OJI CHIEMELA DIVINE about 7 hours ago in Poets
Timothy
My fingers inch closer to the keyboard, itching to obliterate a day's worth of work. It's some of my best writing I've done to date, but at what cost? The words seem to bleed, dripping onto my desk. For a millisecond, I'm sitting in front of a crime scene, looking at dead, begging eyes. Why? Why me?
By Alexandria Stanwyck3 days ago in Fiction
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