love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
Fairytale
You’re the Gertrude Stein to my Picasso, I’m the Camille to your Rodin. How does it end? Will our art become an emblem of an endless love or will our beautiful work become forgotten? In a couple of years, will someone discover what we have created and suddenly make our love known all over the world? Isn’t it reckless to fall into something like this so deep? Isn’t it childish to be crazy about each other? It is my dear, it is.
By Brownie Haze8 years ago in Poets
Small Talks
Why not talk about sex while drinking coffee? Let’s tell each other things we always wanted to say. Let’s get lost in the universe full of dreams that never came true and promises that has never been kept. Let’s tell each other sweet little lies in which we can get lost. I could tell you how I feel when you gently touch inner side of my thigh and swipe your finger around my navel. The Velvet Underground plays Sunday Morning for the third time but we’re still drowning in the lakes of our black coffees.
By Brownie Haze8 years ago in Poets
The Stone and The Traveler
The night was dense with the musk of the sound. The scent of which filled the nostrils and choked the hopeful. Alone, amongst a group of strangers, shrouded by the smoke of cigarettes ignored stories and fabrications, a lone Stone shone bright. The light of the moon cascading down her twisted bounty: Side eye glances pierced the armor of the a traveler stuck in the time. That one glance eliminated all the questions that surrounded the traveler: he no longer consumed the by the night, He was enamored by her atmosphere. The whiskey blurred his mind, yet his vision was crystal clear.
By Stephen Jones8 years ago in Poets
Conflicted
Every breath that she takes is a blessing. At times I almost mistake to confessing that the best thing isn’t even when she’s done undressing, and our lips get to caressing, sucking, teasing, and testing leaving love marks while I feel her insides flexing.. . No, it may be her stares, and how they are sublime beyond compare, and almost blind with little care. How her eyes search for mine, ceasing all concepts of time while I try to find what makes her so divine. They glisten and shine and I long for yet hide from this attention. Like she can see my obsession or recognize that with every breath in I’m searching for her essence. My need for her exceeds mere acquiescence. Or how I get lost in her thoughts. When she speaks I’m twisted into knots as the sky rips open and I feel the heavens when she talks. I begin to find things about myself that I never even sought. My insides scream at my thoughts while my ignorance begins to rot. And despite this I’m more miserable than I have ever thought. I’m broken, I can't elegantly turn my obsession into action. She infuses me with such passion yet my mind cannot fashion how to showcase this complete satisfaction. So as always I turn to sexual gratification. With every breath and dripping sweat I express how you’ve arrested my regrets, and yet I fret that it seems I love you for what we do rather than who you are. Yet by far every thrust, shiver, and scar is a testament to the stars that I could not exist with us apart. That us molded together is the most priceless of art. And although your moans sighs and cries may not reveal all you do to my heart. Whenever I gaze into your eyes while our world is tearing apart, I hope that it’s a start.
By Hannah Mendenhall8 years ago in Poets
