S
sneb
Guest
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S
sneb
Guest
Poem : unsatiated
The way she moved herself,
unsatiated;
I knew my limbs to protest,
in a manner, of stopping halts;
The way she beckoned,
unstopped,
I galloped in with my warfare.
By nightfall,
the cities had
caved in to my pleasures.
And the last rebellion erupted between our thighs,
for they had witnessed the victory delights.
unsatiated;
I knew my limbs to protest,
in a manner, of stopping halts;
The way she beckoned,
unstopped,
I galloped in with my warfare.
By nightfall,
the cities had
caved in to my pleasures.
And the last rebellion erupted between our thighs,
for they had witnessed the victory delights.
S
sneb
Guest
Paradox : passion and priesthood
Of Passion and Priesthood
“It begins”
A violent priesthood is buried within the ulterior
That the face has its periodic ecstasy gifted with;
“Hiding from elaborate passions”
The quaint ascetic is on a hunt for the dainty-formed,
Needless to say, of the liquid curves, the glistening of-
Is what a world in pink is beset, beset with the malformed;
“The fight against passionate overtures”
A vigorous kindling, blue onto the yellow, the call for aid.
Put in dark and stricken with grief, the shadowy helplessness
Within the heart let passions fester: an undergrowth of lust;
“Passions are what they do to us”
Passions are what the flesh behave, the smoky outline of returning hero,
Or the wary hiding of little toes hiding behind smoldering ruins.
Passions are the birds let loose under the magical skies,
Or the hammering drums, felt across majestic breasts, loins.
“In the end”
Fingers can only surmise, the calls, even laid from fore and behind,
Smitten by wayward words, the language is rendered small;
As to the extensive affair, skin and breath,
Eyes and lips, feet and feet, the thighs and hair.
Resplendent touch for varying aesthetics, are all that matter,
The short-lived sighs are silver gown the worn by the night.
“Priesthood”
The slow meandering, like aging creepers, having known the paths-
Strength in the warrior to hew knots after knots, the same bud,
An adamant being, the crazed rush of boiling blood,
A broken piece of heart, crushed, beyond the journey.
“It begins”
A violent priesthood is buried within the ulterior
That the face has its periodic ecstasy gifted with;
“Hiding from elaborate passions”
The quaint ascetic is on a hunt for the dainty-formed,
Needless to say, of the liquid curves, the glistening of-
Is what a world in pink is beset, beset with the malformed;
“The fight against passionate overtures”
A vigorous kindling, blue onto the yellow, the call for aid.
Put in dark and stricken with grief, the shadowy helplessness
Within the heart let passions fester: an undergrowth of lust;
“Passions are what they do to us”
Passions are what the flesh behave, the smoky outline of returning hero,
Or the wary hiding of little toes hiding behind smoldering ruins.
Passions are the birds let loose under the magical skies,
Or the hammering drums, felt across majestic breasts, loins.
“In the end”
Fingers can only surmise, the calls, even laid from fore and behind,
Smitten by wayward words, the language is rendered small;
As to the extensive affair, skin and breath,
Eyes and lips, feet and feet, the thighs and hair.
Resplendent touch for varying aesthetics, are all that matter,
The short-lived sighs are silver gown the worn by the night.
“Priesthood”
The slow meandering, like aging creepers, having known the paths-
Strength in the warrior to hew knots after knots, the same bud,
An adamant being, the crazed rush of boiling blood,
A broken piece of heart, crushed, beyond the journey.
B
BadAmy
Guest
I like your thread
S
sneb
Guest
I like your thread
Hey Amy.
Welcome and thanks for the warm words.
I have written much last few days. But my archives are being dug out at times.
Hope you enjoy more that's about to soon come over here.
Cheers.
S.
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S
sneb
Guest
Poem : I try
I try,
By the smitten ocean to let the waves
Wash your memory away.
I try,
By the turning tides to let the light
Kiss your eyes to sleep.
I try,
By the coasting whispers to maybe
Feel the kisses in return.
I try,
By the felled bushes, to cover,
My image of you, under the glow hidden.
I try,
Let the sands skip a beat, wrinkles on
My saddened beach, to let me forget.
By the smitten ocean to let the waves
Wash your memory away.
I try,
By the turning tides to let the light
Kiss your eyes to sleep.
I try,
By the coasting whispers to maybe
Feel the kisses in return.
I try,
By the felled bushes, to cover,
My image of you, under the glow hidden.
I try,
Let the sands skip a beat, wrinkles on
My saddened beach, to let me forget.
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S
sneb
Guest
Poem : virgin mistress
Darkness lay on her eyes as a virgin mistress,
a cloud of doubt at the succulent breasts;
Heat to the heart, a perilous growth in low red,
One wondered where be sugar crystals, as was betrothed.
a cloud of doubt at the succulent breasts;
Heat to the heart, a perilous growth in low red,
One wondered where be sugar crystals, as was betrothed.
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S
sneb
Guest
Paradox : waited and waited no
I have done this before, and found it again before,
I have made tea at breakfast and drank at dinner.
The notions keep fighting back, one tear after another,
And still all there is to bleed is my life in a tea-spoon;
Doors ring without the bells, heavy thuds on the wood;
I tiptoe in caution, across the narrow open(ing), peek through.
Postman arrived on his tattered bicycle, and letters of sorrow,
clutched between his aging skin tones, One brown and one black;
There are news from the city and flowers from the garden,
There are tales from the healers, and story from the bough.
I have made tea at breakfast and drank at dinner.
The notions keep fighting back, one tear after another,
And still all there is to bleed is my life in a tea-spoon;
Doors ring without the bells, heavy thuds on the wood;
I tiptoe in caution, across the narrow open(ing), peek through.
Postman arrived on his tattered bicycle, and letters of sorrow,
clutched between his aging skin tones, One brown and one black;
There are news from the city and flowers from the garden,
There are tales from the healers, and story from the bough.
S
sneb
Guest
Pandemonium : end
Times like these, the horizons crash to the seas, as we the men sit by the edge with our drinks bubbling underneath, sending our dreams to nadir and not let them come back. Our lust for the sudden and the sharp brings us to the end, shuttling us off into distance towards the pandemonium.
We in our summer shorts cross-legged against a coconut tree watch the Sun dives into an oil-mine, its broken crimson shades bleeding across the waves towards us.
We sit in our floral frills, little smiles on our faces as the mayhem breaks the silent seas into little screams for help.
There is not a soul that can save us, not a heart that can rescue.
Times like these, the horizons crash to the seas, as we the men sit by the edge with our drinks bubbling underneath, sending our dreams to nadir and not let them come back. Our lust for the sudden and the sharp brings us to the end, shuttling us off into distance towards the pandemonium.
We in our summer shorts cross-legged against a coconut tree watch the Sun dives into an oil-mine, its broken crimson shades bleeding across the waves towards us.
We sit in our floral frills, little smiles on our faces as the mayhem breaks the silent seas into little screams for help.
There is not a soul that can save us, not a heart that can rescue.
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S
sneb
Guest
Paradox : no choices
Sometimes the trick is to not have choices.
The options are masquerading as our hopes in the early morning,
but they are the subtle claws on our throats,
hurting deeper every time we choose.
Sometimes the idea is to not select,
but let it up for the fate.
We are intoxicated to free will,
sometimes there is no choice,
the trick is to give it up.
Sometimes there is hope,
no hurt.
There is just what it is,
nothing more, nothing less.
Sometimes the trick is to not have choices.
The options are masquerading as our hopes in the early morning,
but they are the subtle claws on our throats,
hurting deeper every time we choose.
Sometimes the idea is to not select,
but let it up for the fate.
We are intoxicated to free will,
sometimes there is no choice,
the trick is to give it up.
Sometimes there is hope,
no hurt.
There is just what it is,
nothing more, nothing less.
S
sneb
Guest
Poem : power of poetry
The power of poetry is in those pauses.
A lover's halt upon his beloved's trembling lips,
That bridge two worlds incomplete yet irresistible,
That one has set while that other unset;
When it makes sense not more not less, just enough,
Of all to come, quietly unsure, pregnant with moments;
A magical uncertainty, the poetry is in the kiss everlasting;
In such hesitation and touch, is the power of poetry.
The power of poetry is in those pauses.
A lover's halt upon his beloved's trembling lips,
That bridge two worlds incomplete yet irresistible,
That one has set while that other unset;
When it makes sense not more not less, just enough,
Of all to come, quietly unsure, pregnant with moments;
A magical uncertainty, the poetry is in the kiss everlasting;
In such hesitation and touch, is the power of poetry.
S
sneb
Guest
Paradox : kind of man
The trouble with the kind of man,
when he finds possible, all that he dreams of.
The trouble with the kind of man,
when he finds possible, all that he dreams of.
S
sneb
Guest
Pandemonium : do not look back
Do not in any order look back to find your spring,
a dream felt within is a dream seen,
with every falling day you might just find.
Revolutions he said are by men when their ideas catch fire in one mind and cold in another,
one that can to a sprawling land set fire within and wring forth
a different order. No idea is caustic, save for the intentions,
when the world's thoughts rot, they defend for survival any light that blinds us into believing;
They prefer their known shadows and bathe in the silver for it can also dazzle the naive and less literate.
This when a nonchalant strikes and calls for war, for revolution,
maybe the hearts of the men are soft and prone to change and maybe not;
The old age with the young might shake off the layers of lethargy that formed from years of believing.
I reiterate today, belief is a dangerous industry,
lest, you find it your liberator I daresay you
pay heed to the breaking of clouds above for the centuries turn on at the flipping calendar pages.
Instead to industrious men with their naked bodies glistening in the sunlight
Stroking at your mind and with their ideas, time is right to kill off those stale shadows and build
yourself a new one.
Do not look back to find your spring,
build yourself a new one today."]
Do not in any order look back to find your spring,
a dream felt within is a dream seen,
with every falling day you might just find.
Revolutions he said are by men when their ideas catch fire in one mind and cold in another,
one that can to a sprawling land set fire within and wring forth
a different order. No idea is caustic, save for the intentions,
when the world's thoughts rot, they defend for survival any light that blinds us into believing;
They prefer their known shadows and bathe in the silver for it can also dazzle the naive and less literate.
This when a nonchalant strikes and calls for war, for revolution,
maybe the hearts of the men are soft and prone to change and maybe not;
The old age with the young might shake off the layers of lethargy that formed from years of believing.
I reiterate today, belief is a dangerous industry,
lest, you find it your liberator I daresay you
pay heed to the breaking of clouds above for the centuries turn on at the flipping calendar pages.
Instead to industrious men with their naked bodies glistening in the sunlight
Stroking at your mind and with their ideas, time is right to kill off those stale shadows and build
yourself a new one.
Do not look back to find your spring,
build yourself a new one today."]
S
sneb
Guest
I sleep beneath your shadow,
a flame in the distance.
The moon is my warmth,
carefully placed
upon your closed eyes.
K
KeltAssassin
Guest
beneath my shadow, you do so sleep,
Embers burning, oh so weak
The Moon warms not, it just glows
Quit sleeping beneath my window
Embers burning, oh so weak
The Moon warms not, it just glows
Quit sleeping beneath my window
S
sneb
Guest
Over this cracked wooden sill,
my weary self rests from autumn chill,
your warmth against the wall-
if not the moon, comforts until the dawn.
my weary self rests from autumn chill,
your warmth against the wall-
if not the moon, comforts until the dawn.
K
KeltAssassin
Guest
for what separates you and me,
Not two inches thick of plywood tree,
Like the light that warms a welcoming dawn,
So too will the bobbies for my Peeping Tom.
Not two inches thick of plywood tree,
Like the light that warms a welcoming dawn,
So too will the bobbies for my Peeping Tom.
S
sneb
Guest
They like the salt ocean waters-
rouse me up from my slumber,
I rise, gaze into your well-lit house,
Find my burning desires, doused.
rouse me up from my slumber,
I rise, gaze into your well-lit house,
Find my burning desires, doused.
K
KeltAssassin
Guest
Touche’
S
sneb
Guest
BlackCaramelCreme
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2016
- Posts
- 42,468
Hi there...how are you today? Nice to see you...(((((((((hugs)))))))))
S
sneb
Guest
Hey, ((hugs back))
, Am doing good, it is the end of today, about to slip under the blanket, been a long weekend.
How are you doing?
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BlackCaramelCreme
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2016
- Posts
- 42,468
Hey, ((hugs back))
Am doing good, it is the end of today, about to slip under the blanket, been a long weekend.
How are you doing?
I'm good...about to get a few loads of laundry in...if there are no sporting events I'm into on...2:40pm here. Bright and sunny afternoon.
S
sneb
Guest
ooh, I miss the sunny days already. It gets darker and gloomier in here day by day. The winter is here, my father always said.
"when the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives!"
I am a GOT noob.
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BlackCaramelCreme
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2016
- Posts
- 42,468
ooh, I miss the sunny days already. It gets darker and gloomier in here day by day. The winter is here, my father always said.
"when the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives!"
No worries. *Raising hand* I confess to be one as well.
