she bleeds poetry

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she bleeds poetry

.

Her words are oxygen

filling my lungs with love.

Intoxicated by her verses

my head rests on metaphors.

Finding solace in each stanza

her writing inspires me.

My muse doesn’t write poems

she bleeds poetry.

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she is love

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she is love

.

She is a goddess

reigning over poetry and prose.

The divinity of her words

written by a siren so sublime,

inspires heaven and earth

my body and soul.

She is all of that,

and so much more.

Befitting of one description,

she is love.

.

Photo from Google Images. No credits provided.

She Writes For Me

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She Writes For Me

No one knows our secret

Our beautiful connection

From her pen

To my heart

She writes of love

She writes of me

Perhaps she’ll write tonight

so I can read her words

and pretend

she writes for me.

Image borrowed from Google Images.

DISCLAIMER. Fiction, though I wish it wasn’t.

The Way Things Used To Be

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The Way Things Used To Be

 

Our home has become as lonely

as the last leaf on a dying tree

laughter no longer reverberates against walls

we consummated with our love

old arguments replay themselves endlessly

like a scratched record avoiding the next beat

the eerie shadows of who we once were

turn us into restless spirits of the night 

as we haunt ourselves with stained memories of

the way things used to be

 

Photo from Google Images

 

Her Words Are My Aphrodisiac

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Her Words Are My Aphrodisiac

Her words are my aphrodisiac
as her tender keystrokes
burn my trembling skin
hypnotized by lovely metaphors
she fills my voids with sin

Her words are my aphrodisiac
let my body be a clean sheet
where she pens a little prose
I will admire every syllable
more than she will ever know

 

Photo taken from Google Images