Poetry that turns you on

[_Land]

Poetry that breaths eroticism with out being smut .... What do you have...


It can border on porn but it needs to be imagery that isn't found in the dime store romance book

Erotic poetry is "hard" to get right

This thread is for fun and evaluation comment on the poetry ....

Drop a poem drop a comment

Hopefully drop your drawers when you come in

 

[_Land]

“Blueprints of Tremble”

She doesn't start—
she studies.
Thumb circling the rim
like she's reading Braille,
learning the language of throb
with lips parted
just enough
to threaten.

Her tongue sketches
every nerve like cartography—
mapping the tremble
just beneath my skin,
etching routes to ruin
with each flick,
each deliberate drag
of soft against firm.

She treats my crown
like a lit fuse—
suckling slow,
holding breath
as pressure builds,
where her palm steadies me
like a match
just before the strike.

I feel her jaw flex—
a vice of velvet,
each pull
a plunge into heat
so exact,
so engineered,
I question
whether I was made
for anything but this.

She withdraws just enough
to let air hit the wet—
a cruel breeze
over raw thunder,
then dives again
until her throat
becomes an hourglass,
counting down
with every bob
what little restraint
I have left.

Her fingers don’t wander—
they grip.
Rooted.
Commanding.
She’s not coaxing a climax,
she’s breaking a beast,
with nothing
but rhythm and resolve.

And when she hums—

it’s not music,
it’s a tremor
down the backbone of time.
I twitch,
and she smiles around it,
mouth full of pulse,
like she planned this quake
in blueprints.

By the time I burst,
it’s not surrender.
It’s acknowledgment.
I didn’t stand a chance.
She pulled galaxies
through a straw—
and I came undone
in the gravity
of her craft.

 

[Tzara]

Tactile

When I saw her again,
years later,
what was odd was how

well my palms remembered
the soft weight of her breasts
held from behind, as if

I held her, really held her,
I would have been happy
these long last twenty years.

 

[_Land]

What Turns Me On

It's the way you laugh
like you’re trying not to—
teeth sunk into the edge of joy
as if it might spill
too bright, too loud,
and yet it does,
and I forget
whatever I was angry about
ten seconds ago.

The way you trace my arm
while I’m driving—
slow, distracted circles
with your index finger,
as if the softness of my skin
confirms something
you already knew—
but need to touch
to believe again.

You crack the window
just enough
for the wind to flirt with your hair,
and I steal glances—
not because you’re beautiful
(though you are)
but because you look
so entirely yours
in that moment,
I feel like a guest.

You talk to yourself
when no one’s listening—
little half-conversations,
thoughts you toss into the air
like breadcrumbs
for your future self to find.
And I fall in love
with every one
you forget to gather.

The way you pause
before answering—
that microsecond
of truth collecting itself
behind your eyes.
Even your silence
has the weight
of something holy.

You hum,
off-key and always in motion—
bending around corners,
gathering socks,
pouring coffee
like a ritual you invented
just for mornings with me.

You don’t perform.
You exist
like firewood:
stacked, quiet,
and somehow still promising
heat.

What turns me on
is not the shape of your body
but the curve
of your presence—
the way your being
touches mine
without ever asking permission,
because it never had to.

 

[_Land]

Sign Language

My lips whisper poetry
across the timelines of your skin—
slowly,
softly—
felt
in the echoes.

A gentle breeze
stirring—

Stirring flesh
into sign language.

Goosebumps
like braille for the blind
I read each one
tracing, etching want into memory—
my fingertips
carving syntax
into the curve of your hip.

The flush of heat
coloring you in real time—
a bloom from throat to cheekbone,
your skin blushing
before your mouth
can find words.

Your breath becomes meditation.
Each inhale—
a question.
Each exhale—
an invitation
where my mouth
waits in reply.

This is dialogue.
Every kiss
a phrase.
Every shiver
a response.

I do not write on your skin—
I listen to it.
Until your whole body
becomes fluent
in yes.

 

[_Land]

“She Braids My Silence”

She braids my silence
with fingers that smell
of lavender and rain-swollen soil—
not asking, not prying,
just weaving me into stillness.

I am the cracked teacup
she fills without spilling,
her eyes—
twin hearths
where my winterbones thaw.

We do not kiss,
but her breath
warms the place behind my ear
like dusk leaning
into the curve of the earth.

Her laughter
plants wildflowers
between the ribs
I once kept
barricaded in barbed wire.

She doesn’t say stay,
but I do—
folding into her
like pages in a well-read book
where the spine is soft
from being held too often.

She is not mine.
But she kneads
the ache in me
as if she’s always known
its exact address.

 

[_Land]

Negation

your hands
were never mine

but I built cathedrals
from the absence of your touch—
glass spires
rising from keyboard clicks,
my pulse caught
in the silence
after
you typed
“…still there?”

I stripped for you
in syllables,
hips tilting with every
misspelled want—
a slow undressing
of the unsent

you never saw
the back of my neck,
but I arched it
into the blue light
of your maybe

your mouth
was never near me,
but I tasted
its echoes—
in the coffee gone cold
as I reread
your “if only…”

I came
to the memory
of a conversation
that never touched skin—
a climax
built entirely
from the weight
of what we didn’t say

this is how
you ghosted
through my marrow—
a hunger
never bitten
but never fed
and still,
I ache

for the shape
you never filled
for the breath
I gave
to nothing

because even desire
can be felt
in its
negation

 

[_Land]

“Still”

the wind folds itself around them
like it remembers
the first time they kissed beneath these trees—
how her spine curved--
her body had always known
where to bend for him.

now,
her hand rests in his,
memory and presence
no grip—just gravity.
a knowing.

each step
is the choreography
of a thousand mornings—
his coat over her shoulders,
her thumb on the rim of his coffee cup,
the silence
that no longer needs filling.

she smiles
and he doesn’t ask why.
his body already knows.

a bench waits.
they sit.
she leans,
her temple tucked against the hollow
he’s worn there
from years of welcoming her weight.

between them—
a thousand small fires
burn slow.
embers that never went out.

and in the way
she sighs into his collarbone,
in the way
his breath deepens beside her—
the world watches
two lovers
still making love
without undressing a thing.

 

[_Land]

Her First and Final Unveiling

The first time
she undressed in front of me—

in that quiet ceremony
where the body asks:
Will you always want me this way?

The moonlight folded around her hips.
I remember
how her blouse spilled from her shoulders,
fabric abandoning form
in devotion.

Her breath—
a tremble caught between trust and exposure—
became the room’s only sound.

I held still
as if movement might unravel the moment.
She eclipsed everything.
My chest stretched to contain her,
and still
it broke.

—

Now,
she is dressed again.

By strangers with soft hands
and faces carved from practiced quiet.
They smooth her hair,
a gentle wind
arranging the leaves in a tree.

They fold her fingers,
closing her book
in mid-sentence.

I stand—
an artifact
in a room that remembers her shape
better than I do.

The curve of her jaw
retreats beneath cloth
that cannot contain her.

I remember how she laughed—
mouth full of honey and thunder—
and the stillness
refuses to hold it.

This is the last undressing.
The last unveiling.
They lower her with care,
but each inch feels torn from marrow—
the earth taking my name
from the mouth
that once made it music.

She taught me how to hold a soul.
Now,
she teaches me
how to carry its echo.

 

[SomeBliss]

“Blueprints of Tremble”

She doesn't start—
she studies.
Thumb circling the rim
like she's reading Braille,
learning the language of throb
with lips parted
just enough
to threaten.

Her tongue sketches
every nerve like cartography—
mapping the tremble
just beneath my skin,
etching routes to ruin
with each flick,
each deliberate drag
of soft against firm.

She treats my crown
like a lit fuse—
suckling slow,
holding breath
as pressure builds,
where her palm steadies me
like a match
just before the strike.

I feel her jaw flex—
a vice of velvet,
each pull
a plunge into heat
so exact,
so engineered,
I question
whether I was made
for anything but this.

She withdraws just enough
to let air hit the wet—
a cruel breeze
over raw thunder,
then dives again
until her throat
becomes an hourglass,
counting down
with every bob
what little restraint
I have left.

Her fingers don’t wander—
they grip.
Rooted.
Commanding.
She’s not coaxing a climax,
she’s breaking a beast,
with nothing
but rhythm and resolve.

And when she hums—

it’s not music,
it’s a tremor
down the backbone of time.
I twitch,
and she smiles around it,
mouth full of pulse,
like she planned this quake
in blueprints.

By the time I burst,
it’s not surrender.
It’s acknowledgment.
I didn’t stand a chance.
She pulled galaxies
through a straw—
and I came undone
in the gravity
of her craft.

I love this poem…she pulled galaxies through a straw…simply divine!

 

[_Land]

I love this poem…she pulled galaxies through a straw…simply divine!

Thank you , i appreciate hearing these words......

 

[SomeBliss]

I love and write poetry. I didn’t realize there was so much poetry on Lit. Are you published in the real world

 

[_Land]

I love and write poetry. I didn’t realize there was so much poetry on Lit. Are you published in the real world

I'm not published, but am considering it.

I've been told I should lol ,

 

[SomeBliss]

Definitely, your poetry stands out here. I took notice.

 

[_Land]

Through the Window

Water runs.
It’s too loud.
The day still clings to her skin
emails, crumbs, the tantrums
at 1:49 and 3:17.
She rubs her temples
and stares at the soft bubble-over of the pot.

She reaches for the knife,
thumb dragging across the handle
slightly sticky from something missed.
She doesn't care.
She chops with too much wrist,
not enough rhythm.

through the open window
sounds and motion carry,
a different beat
creating pause

He’s barefoot.
In that shirt she told him to throw out.
The one that clings
with one sleeve gone

Dirt rings his ankle.
One sock missing.
He holds the toddler on his hip
like she weighs nothing
like his body was made
to anchor hers.

The boy circles him
with a stick and a roar.
The game is nonsense,
but he plays it
like he made the rules

He crouches
knee to grass
and the toddler’s hand
slides into his hair.
She laughs.
The boy laughs.
He laughs.
But quieter.
A man who carries
more than he says.

Her hands still.
Knife on cutting board.
Steam beads against the window,
softening the image
but sharpening everything else.

There’s something
in the way his spine lengthens
when he lifts the girl higher
so she can see the sky.

The muscles in his back
tighten then release,
and she feels
an echo of it
in a place
she didn’t expect to wake tonight