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They give us a white paper
Tell us to paint a canvas
But what do we paint?
The darkness in our hearts?
The pain in our soul?
The demons in our heads?
So I paint it black
Then splash of red
They ask why that?
I respond "you said to paint our canvas"
People start to stare,
They start to talk
They ask "why is it black?"
And say "She's Weird"
To me it is the painting of
Struggle
As I look in the black
I can see it all clear
There's a story being told.
 Apr 2017 Michael L
Cné
slipping in her wet painted petal
bitten by the sting of his bee
her first time, he fumbles being gentle
excitement dancing in his driving need

instinctively possessed
arcing her hips experimentally
his maleness sweetly carressed
teasing his need, tremendously

each submersion in her sweetness
peaking waves swelling in her breast
entwining rhythmic explosiveness  
pulsating gush, plunging over the crest
Metaphorically speaking... lol
Begin with
something
broken—

a bone,
a heart,
a home—

collect
the pieces
carefully

and work
them over

over time

tumble and polish
tumble and polish

make the pain shine.
 Apr 2017 Michael L
rose
2:00 a.m.
 Apr 2017 Michael L
rose
Raspberry tea at 2:18 A.M.
is a Band-Aid to my loneliness
How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?
thank you for all your comments and likes. never thought that this poem would be so appreciated. thank you again and again.
The lesser gifts.
I hold.
Loosely in my hand.
For they could fly away.
At any moment.

The Greatest Gift of all.
I cling to.
Never letting go.
For He is the One.
Who keeps my soul.
And to Him alone.
My life.
I owe.
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