Alas but i am a mere slave
to Her tell all desire,
to scribe of the life...
i wish to live-

Yet live can i
through trials, triumphs
and troubles.
Pen in hand
(no time for white-out)
i feign Her tall tales
with adventures of love,
dreaming that perhaps
she spied me.

i walk going nowhere,
as if on a treadmill
within the mundane.
When suddenly,
from left field,
She decides its time,
to be the star
in Her version of
“Invasion of the
Thoughtsnatcher”

Forever enslaved
by my Mistress,
my b1tch
of a Muse.

There is a difference between being nice and a doormat. Nice works well if you have clear boundries, communicate them, and then enforce them respectfully. Nice guys tend to finish last quite often though I think alot of the "nice" comes from insecurities. Be nice to yourself first, love and respect self everything else falls into place and by being a nice guy, you will "win"

530... gold country up in the foothills

thank you

very nice with the yearning beheath the expression

lol I bet I could conguer something in my mind as to its meaning

why thank you both

well paper-poet,
how silence stings
like salt poured,
i know it's torture,
haven’t made that call,
content in my armor
comfortable in my stagnant state
too numb to flinch.

or maybe i pull at the fragile mind
and see nothing but chaos
and confusion,
madness and raw passion
but once touched i wither
into grit and dust.

perhaps it is compassion
in me for others,
a need to spare us both
of inevitable combustion.
perchance i fear your power,
your prowess to make me tingle
while i await your response
with labored breath.

I don’t know really
all i secretly surmise
is i repeatedly rescue
myself
and let you drown,
yet still you remain



buried in anticipation.

lovely I have been there!

in the half light of silence
I closed my unseeing eyes
as mud became rock and underneath
laid our story, lain in thrift,
tough as an axe handle
and fragile as daylight.

descent into the inevitable invisible,
where the memory of you lingers,
suspended from above
like a piece of art --

you can find me
in the dreamer’s lounge,
on my knotted knees,
where your stone is cold --

and when love decides to find me
and I open my eyes


let it be you.

ty LA

ty wench and teagle

thank you

When my parents where still alive, we had large family gatherings(30+) One thanksgiving 20 or so of us were in living room drinking and talking chit. My then wife had a dress on, went into bathroom, took off panties, and while I was sitting on the recliner she "sat" on me. We kept convo going(barely) and not a single drunken family member had a clue of what was going on

I, the country song that wailed
buckets of rain when played.

Scratched, I skipped life’s song.

Warped from exposure –
scorched beyond recognition,
tarnished having been overused
and abused.

You, the jukebox with a playlist.
Repeat selected of a single classic –
or so thought.

Located in a simple search
I became the downloaded file,
a ripped song from a worn cd.

Cheese-cloth hand buffs out scratches
and shines away blemishes.

Placed into heart’s library,
hesitatingly added to current playlist –
alongside “the oldie.”

Spun on the disc-changer
of love pristine,
a beat formed in unison.

A new song reverberated
and an old one frequently skipped.

Climbing the charts,
like a shooting star,
mouse right clicked
and classic removed from playing list.

Number one on heart’s chart,
sorrowed tune rewrote
and remixed
into a soothed love ballad.

Right click, left click on delete –
classic sent to the recycle bin.

given name is Michael and native name is Blazing White Wolf or Blaze for short, both are used fairly equally

now b!tch I like! My ***** anyways

thank you just throwing some words together

I… the quill that scribes a thrill
of poetry upon ivory vellum
with ripe passion fruit grown erect
and ridges that curve succulent.

you... the parchment sighing attachment
of ethereal passageways heaven bound.
An unfurled roll of slender-skin gyrates
to the beat of moaned lyrics written.

Salty inspiration weaves glistened heaves
within shivers penned on warm silken lips,
paper thin sighs escape hardened-pen inhaler
and typed heat boils under quivering scroll.

Paper covers rock, strolls the alabaster block,
inscribing in a slow and rhythmic power walk.
As the poetic document states the All Mighty
resurrected while writing erotic Scripture.

Pen & paper collaborate as they evaporate
carnal desires and watch them condensate
into a liquid mix of perfect teamwork
to scribe a fluid state of tactile ecstasy.

well stated this brings to light simular experiences and feelings for many