wicked
You said I smelt like a rose
you plucked my petals
one by one
slowly whispering
she loves me
she loves me not
my legs were spread wide
like the ocean
and you drowned in my waters.
The smell of burn toast
brought me to my senses
and the memory of a rose garden
between my legs
was long forgotten.
helpful writer ramblings from a disturbed mind just like yours
The Diary of a Late-Blooming Romantic.
In the kingdom of life, with the strokes of the brush, the bow and the pen, artists have sowed their hearts to contrive, fields rivalling in beauty the Garden of Eden.
the darker the heart, the deeper the poetry runs
"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
GRACE FOR PURPOSE
"A word after a word after a word is power" Margaret Atwood
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Toronto Feminist Micro Press
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Because I have a lot to say ♨
” the smell of burnt toast ” ….and roses , so wickedly bewitching . Love you Chrissy ! megxxx
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and so true to life. xx thank you Meg! sending you love xxx
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You left me speechless. You don’t write any clunkers. Another amazing poem with such erotic imagery. This was freakin’ hot. Love your work.
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thank you x
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https://thelighteningandthefire.wordpress.com/2015/10/26/mystify-me/
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inxs mystify me – fuck I’m too old for this shit
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