Tag: Erotic

Poetry Collection (Tears and Later Years) – Poem 23/100 – “A Bottle of Fervency”

Bold nights. Centered frights.
I wake to find you
less than a note away
on a scale of burning
sheet music.

To shadows, that escape
with greater speed
than fading sunlight.

You will be morphed
with all your sunset curves.

You will be more distant,
than when you dimmed.

You will be blackened
at connections of heat,
becoming further
than stagnant distance.

Fires extinguish
at a bottle of tears,
worshipping all that
grows a garden of fears.
One rose, once gentlest,
in how thorns
caused you to cry.
Petals lose their scent
as all feelings
will eventually die.

But memories are close,
lifted in song –

but buried within
closed doors of a mind
that finds itself,
in embracing corridors –

in all spaces,
our anguish retains.
Once dripping
from passionate fingers,
here for tracing
of entrenched stains.

A presence fallen,
at its crest, while I am unaware
at where you’ll enter next.

To bleed in being devoured,
from a repeated need
from a drained,
discolored flower.

Poem – “Entrenched Claw Marks” – Erotic Poetry – 10/3/2022

Those wraparounds,
bold curves. Wide in swerves,
undressing in shadows,
dressing in lace.
Broken hands come around,
embracing poison of sweat,
water of lily pads.

Between you, to be
within you, I hold all of
your declining droplets,
meant for my mouth
scarred from absence,
meant as a substance
to feel like real presence.

I bring you down to softness
from those rocks, clogged
in your eyes. I help you to swallow
this dust, this sickness,
those clouds that showered you
in rain that comes
from high above,
not deep down.

I let you swell, I aim to quell
all those profusive moments
you were directionless.

Rope answers from my eyes.
Let me cripple your disguise,
digging you above ground,
beneath Heaven’s lies,
to be merged in all sounds
when seasons merge inside.

Quote – “A Man, and Sex” – 8/29/2020

“A man is gifting, when he forsakes what he feels, for the feelings of a woman. A man is vain, when he forsakes what a woman will feel, for the sake of what he can attain.

If, in bed, a man cannot gift to a woman her pleasure, in sole focus on her feelings, then he is not himself.

If pleasure should matter to the man, over the woman’s own, then he is not himself.”

– Modern Romanticism

Excerpt – Erotica – “To not Sink a Friend” – Romance Novel – 8/11/2020

She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look.

She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her sight, and sorrowful to her soul. As misery creates the greater, darkened clouds, it becomes a short-term relief when passion can overrule it. A touch between the legs has made her face aglow, while her eyes are glinted like the prettied, tempered steel. Like two fastened orbs of metal, encrusted into her skull, the irises show off the only color, being like we have said, a stark green.

As she leans closer, the soon sight of herself to the vanity she exposes from her skin, the life in her form, the energy in her slight quivers, harbors a great attention to detail.

Little droplets racing from beneath her arms, driving a scent to the unfurling winds bleeding in from an ajar window, would entice even the smallest pebble, were that to hold life. Her hair, a great wind for a flurry, heaving in all direction in its disordered nature. It, too, holds a fragrance, clinging in shampoo to the utmost of its alignment. She is, inarguably, tempestuous, just as she is radiant, both in the literal and figurative depiction. Her back, arched, as her bottom throws itself upward, revealing pink for pink, gleam for gleam, and scent for scent. A defeatist nature would make anyone mad, were they to not dabble in the admiration of her. She is now like a plucked lily from a bed of algae upon a pond.

Still, great weavings of thread somewhat cloak her, about the waist, and about her legs. Her bottom, plump. Her breasts, full. Her eyes, aglow. Her hair, graced by a silken texture within each strand, and being luscious by every highlight. Modesty only ever cloaks the startling form, enough to have the yearning to tear it away.

Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume Three – Chapter I – Romance Novel – 7/21/2020

Love walks. She walks. Or, she had walked, and now she lays. Upon a back with eyes to a ceiling. Her ceiling. Her mind with walls and the drawn-in above. A world of hers, this Lisa, who can smile without sincerity. Radiance makes its way over her skin, masking something more than this. A belief she holds, that she keeps in disbelief. A denial, a saturation of her mind by something so entitled. Something so wanting to believe she cannot be this neglected. By a man, no less, because a man’s cruelty comes as common as dirt. To a woman, a man’s cruelty in love is simply unexpected. Simple to be unexpected, for she heard his honesty without question.

A woman questions no man’s honesty. A woman hears what she wants to hear, to then accept it. For what makes her smarter than any man? It is that the stains of her heart, are gotten used to, while she understands that to be a woman means to be used.

Wrong love uses a woman, comprehends her body as a place for a sad man’s discovery. His fingers are her rot. His ideals are her reveals.

Though, upon her back, with her eyes closed, and a pair of fingers between pillars of ivory, there can be lost sensation entering upon the shoreline. There can be a lost moment returning to trail itself in the leaves, of whatever Autumn sought to felled them. There can be the scent of a loosened body, riding waters like the wax of bleeding candles. She leaves lakes beneath herself, as clear as the ocean without the sky. Wax melts off her fingers, while she sails. She wails with her mouth opened into a circle. Her tears come collapsing to her cheeks. Her grief, such a stain that has a deepened spot in a heart that beats at its fastest rhythm. Blood runs, though it is cold.

Novel Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume One/Chapter VI – Erotic Scene – 6/26/2020

He carries her. She is guided under his palms, meant for this. For the rushing blood, the skin to be agleam under the brightening moon in the midnight hour. He has startled her, in his wrapping arms about her feebly thin waist. He watches. Her notices the whistling tension from her mouth, and he washes her faint groans away with another kiss.

Like love never held passion, before. Like a form never was beaded by the perspiration of a certain tide, as the current let loose by the storm. Here, all the pieces of a broken heart become arranged. Here, all the disorder becomes ordered. Here all the confusion becomes fusion, becomes connection, becomes the colors that consist of the rainbow to never fade. Over her blushing face, his sun is brighter than the moon we’ve described to share a likeness to this heat.

Leave slender times to tender times, lovers of yore. Candles lit, and wax drips like tears that roll down porcelain cheeks. Slender like the tapers, wielding the smallest flame, like they were upon the ends of Lisa’s fingers. She caresses him, sends him this flame that signals sparks to the nighttime hues, for all of her transparent complexion.

Within his grasp, she has entertained multiple sighs. Out on the streets of Madrid, they rush. They find their music, as well, heard in the ears of fewest paupers to graze the sides of rustic buildings.

They are creating the smoke, realizing themselves the draft, remembering each other the folding passion, of limbs that twist for another limb, of faces that contort for its twin. He hears her. He spies her bliss, finding itself in her delicate gaze, curled upon the retracted eyelids the brown curls, descending from a halo-less scalp. For her passion bites, holds a song in her sigh, wields smoothness by her lip, easily sought for like her hips. He touches. He watches. He wields a crease in one hand, the blanketing dress of hers in the other.

In the dark, they are the simplest of lovers. Typical, in their eyes left to wander in the dark gazes of the other. Their pupils and irises make fields, as their vision is left to roam them.

He says upon her, “Is there anything more for us? Anything more to share?” as though hinting at a missing of something.

“We are the passion,” says she, Lisa, the woman who has bled her stars into him, Joel. She has attempted to fade, though again, he is always able to count the one among the numerous. She is, to him, the one unable to die, so long as there is something to hold, something to recount from the rest. From the rest of sweetness? From the rest of bitterness? However it be, Lisa remains to Joel the Asian broth that must contain the tangiest flavors, or otherwise not be considered a cuisine.

Excerpt to a Novel – “A Dream once Loved” Romance – From Volume 2 – Chapter IV – 4/11/2020

The outline to her risqué shape, conjures up in Alessio’s mind the image of lust, dangling on the edge of canyon cliffs. As though he were the coyote to find the scrap of flesh, unknowing of the trap to bring him high. He would fall to bleed in her, a love that reaches miles across deserted straights. Though, the man who resides in him, may remain strict until the point of arrival.

Discipline steers him to slow his steps, leaving eyes to find him dead. Alive, though still awakened to the sight of beauty. What manifold layers of it to satiate him, the little woman before him, who is no sooner to quit her pace than any shepherd with his flock.

There is not much detail to be described, try as we might from behind the woman where Alessio moves his feet. A faint hint of what is noticed to be blush, can be see of her when she twists her head to the right upon taking to her curious notions. Another hint, of lashes made of mahogany color, lists itself as among the beauty to belong to women of this degree. Wealth is deep in her pledges to this modern world. Contemporary atmosphere has sentenced itself to her state, wild as it still may be.

Let us leave the graces of Paris to their small enclosures, of where protection comes from the surrounding rustic and cemented ceilings. They have feet where they can be, among hands that can care for what must. Life, too delicate to be raised, without the genuine touch of someone, should remain at its base.

This woman who has caught the attention of our Alessio, motions away from him all- the-more. It is enough for his face to give up the chase of something better than his paranoia.

He leaves love to scout out a wonderment in his heart.

Poem – “Your Life in My Hands” – Romance – 8/23/2019

There is nothing so gentle,
As the woman claiming to be
The certainty for herself.
I offer condolence,
And she falls on her hands
And knees, to kiss the toes,
Of a man who has allowed her to escape
From a pain, from a fate that was calling
Her, to come away.
From her eyes, rained many tears.

Only a ruined soul, to this one woman,
Could be harmed further by a delicate pride.
She would stand with toes curled,
And eyes upon her hands to the sky.
I would offer what is needed,
So that she calls herself to collapse,
And she begins to wither in my arms,
Now raining petals,
To be counted.
What a love I have for this child.

There is much to admire,
In your vulnerability.
Much to smile over, and to call beautiful,
In that vulnerability.

There is much to adore,
In your trembling.
Much to find comfortable, in your tears,
And from your trembling arms.

For beauty is only beautiful,
When admired by love.
I would not burn the tree,
But keep it embraced,
As I love her,
I will keep her rooted.

Flash Story – “The Rise of Eroticism” – Erotica

There is much to adore of a form so raw with flesh. She shows bravery by walking to a place where she may admire her form.

As I peer through this window to see her, I may watch the breasts move upwards, as she steers such a form. I may see her cheeks with redness attached, and a chin where sweat has loomed to it. Alike to a cliff where a waterfall would drain away its contents into a gorge, this is it. She does not falter. No; and she cannot falter.

I am in love with mere beauty?

Although, I see my own reflection as a deposit of soil against this filthy frame, and a window becomes a mirror. At once, what I notice is beheld before me as a face of hideousness!

A man of an atrocious appearance. So much befuddled with the wetness from grime, from endless hours in vain toil. What would I achieve in that virtuous undertaking of a task, any task, to suit a moment’s reprieve? A moment in tired rest? Underneath sheets that are made from satin or linen, from a hotel with such fabric not belonging to me?

But, I am here to now see a woman in admiration to an astonishing figure, am I not? I am not here to berate myself. I am only here to see that which strikes out upon my face as a woman of no scolding to what she notices.

Two breasts like two pears, evenly displaced from the other, and perky enough to create that tip, alike to the pear’s shape. Of famous eyes that glimmer among the room’s arid temperature, and arms that do the same. Of those same eyes that are buried in the deepest shade of brown. And those same arms, that sway widely after she’s expressed admiration before this mirror in her room.

Oh, how I wish I could be that mirror!

How I wish I could understand that mirror, as well, and how it came to be in that corner, of where it stands.

Beautiful as she may be, she is only a figure, and I as well, see my face, once again; as it stares back at me, I can feel such a sting. A loathing, a pressing, and a great hatred that steams from somewhere fowl.

I know it.

In admiration of a figure, I admire the slave. The form. The worker. I would admire them, and still think highly of their efforts.

Who had sculpted her, I now ask?

Who had made the curves, that relate so much to the Earth, and its same curvature? Who has made the eyes with so much color alike the deepest shade of the bark upon an oak, or the deadened Autumn leaves?

Had I mentioned her hair, where female vices spring truest?

To make it alike to baldness would be to spread contempt upon both the beauty and travesty of a heart.

Had I mentioned the greatest detail, being the button to her abdomen, alike to the disused outlet in the wall of the Victorian home; or especially alike to either of this woman’s ears, that hearken to the neighboring parties, ones that are creating tunes upon gramophones?

For I say this is important, because in viewing it, I see of this woman, the vastest of sympathy. To breed. To offer. To allow.

And I am merely an object, disowned.

Poem – “Upon the Bed, I’ll Lay Thee” – Romance

Your growing fragrance,
Matches this room and its aromatic candles.
And I have found it upon myself
With my hands to claw at the flesh of thee,
To tear and yank the burden of attire I see,
To match the nakedness to the maker of me,
Who is a demon that I cannot let flee.
You have sweat glistening upon an arm,
And a face that whimpers beneath the soaring skies.

When I choose to love, I live as the beast,
To devour the wholeness of your making.

When did you last submit?
Where will you see yourself in coming years?
Above the sands of shores where shades dance on a form,
That has never been nude.

I shall lay you upon a bed,
For myself to see,
And to glimpse a moving breast,
And two legs like the purest white from birch.

When I’ll make you mine,
I’ll differ nectar from wine,
And make the world find me tiresome.

When will I grow intolerant?

“The Grove and Ivory Flesh” – Poem – Romantic

I saw beneath lashes, masked by shadow,
The beauty, of unfathomable lust,
She drew a finger, in my direction,
So that I’d lay, beneath ivory flesh.

Never was there, an emotion so exquisite!
As the one laid, upon my heart,
Enough, so that she cared, to comfort,
Its undying beat.

She drew across, three fingers, to her bosom,
So that three orbs, were revealed,
Two breasts,
And one heart.
For I saw among, her feeble form,
The drowning, of that heart,
Among, such melted ivory.

I forgave, the spite I had concealed,
In spite, of knowing, what had been revealed,
I drew a finger, to a breast,
One of them, for the other, she grasped.
I felt with turmoil, in mind,
The disease, to her fragrant hind.

Her bust, and her groin,
That which, laid upon, my own,
She felt loneliness, and grief combined,
And grew patient, all-the-more.

A beauty, and a pain,
That which, danced among mists
That shielded, a grove,
One that fled, in currents and doves,
One that shouted, to the moon,
“Do not, let me go,
Among the fires, and the ebony!”

And I disobeyed, her plea,
For it rang, too heavily.

Dialogue – “The Empirical Assumption over a Man’s Awareness to Romance”

Q: As for your belief in a woman’s way to make herself attractive, are you able to explain why you believe it is always necessary?

A: Attraction is like butter, when melted, not frozen, and the connection of love and devotion will make a man melt into a woman’s attractive appearance. Should a woman be hideous, objectively so, then a woman will have made herself a stone, for the man to chip away. She will have turned him into a slave, working with pickax at grueling work. Love will not be smooth in this, and a man will see his romance as he sees his own life.

Q: What does a man want from love?

A: Rest.

Q: Rest should coincide together between a man and a woman. Is this not correct?

A: It is not correct, because it is not competition that drives a man to want a woman. At least, it is not competition against her. He will not want to challenge her mind, challenge her knowledge; he will want to challenge her heart. Her heart will be more attractive than her face or form. To think of her attractive appearances as melted butter, will be a correct assumption, because an appearance should be made easy. The heart of a woman challenges a man, and he will face external challenges to win it.

Q: And why should a man not challenge her mind?

A: It is because to challenge a woman’s mind will more likely cause him to befriend her, over romancing her. Love always begins at a glance. As for friendship, between a man and a woman, will be the same as a man befriending another man. He will feel like a homosexual, should he not be a homosexual, when he chooses to challenge her mind.