Make words, not love.

I take your mind to bed
Any opinion
You ever had,
Stark naked.

I start fondling
Your musings;
I envision
Your thoughts on my skin.

Your ideas enter me;
I feel myself
Tingling
From all the talking.

All my dreams flow
You, too, are close --
Baby, let me swallow
Any last word.

Autumn

Autumn is a sturdy man
Eager to take your clothes off
What a mess he will leave on the floor

Some dignity hanging on
For as long as possible
But he gets bolder by the day
Complacent to stay.


Autumn is a coy woman
Eager to wear the colors of desire
What a sight she leaves for the beholder

Some courage to resist
As you blow her a kiss
But before she succumbs
She is promised a firework.


Autumn is a seductive game
Here to devour her right away
While for her, withholding is foreplay

His approach is raw
She delays her fall
She wanted it to last
But he came too fast.

I pray for you

Eyes do not meet
But I still see
Lips are sealed
But still I speak.

I listen to
Your quiet voice
And I inhale
Your scent long gone.

I pray for you
Each night I do
I cannot touch you
But I am holding you.

That is what poets do

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and scenic thoughts captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.