JapanForum.com - Can't draw, so I'll write instead.

I'm feeling a tad daring this morning, enough to post some of my writing that I host @ WritersCafe.org. Here's a couple of pieces that I've written in the past months I'm particularily proud of.

What the Wind Carries by M@

Quote:

I dream of the exotic
and desperatly erotic desire
the winds carry,
the winds that carry spices,
fragrance, memories, ya-ya’s
tales of broken hearts and broken tales
of hearts that found another,
fragmented by tongues of jealous others;
the winds that tease and stroke my cheeks,
that run their fingers through my hair
maternally, succulently,
its whispers intoxicating my eardrums
to a malicious, foreign beat;
the winds that wake the trees,
moving branch fingers, searching
another hand to conjoin their own
in a conga line of giants;
the winds that stir,
or shake, if you prefer,
the seas, serving seven margaritas
with sea-salty rims;
the winds that roller-coster birds through the air,
careening through the nothingness expanse
between Heaven and Hell, gazing on the grazing Earth
with kaleidoscopes;
the winds that brush past saying,
“The horizon and sky are one and the same,”
and leave to quick for me to cry
on shoulderless shoulders to reply
that it’s still too close to ever reach it.

A Poet's Lament by M@

Quote:

There is one.
Only one can exist.
Capable even.
But there she is,
existing in her lucid dreams
crafted carefully carefree
in the hearts of women,
in the lusts of men,
in the minds of man
just enough so everyone
knows they don’t know her.
But everyone loves her,
I myself,
grope and grasp at disappointing air
through double sided
unconscious conscious
tear proof glass panels;
just a touch,
a scrape of skin,
a kiss is asking far too much,
gazing is too painful.
I know a trick few know,
to lure this muse as my own.
Paper, blotted and blighted with
black indifference seeping with self -
quite the aphrodisiac.
She’ll come willingly,
running through poppies
that embrace the best sleep you’ll ever have,
she’ll smother me in her, her in me,
until air becomes a redundant luxury,
until God deems the universe too old
and embraces a new, hip, definition of soul.
We part sparingly,
enough to look in the eyes of the other
seeing ourselves trapped in them countlessly,
engrossed in neverending looking glass mazes
that neither can leave
nor want to.
Won't take clothes off,
I'll write them off;
expenses in the expanse of collective creative consciousness.
One by one, word by word,
dark matter touches paper to strip away
bonds that bind her to one man,
defying gravity upon frictionless skin
God's fugitive wears,
teardrop rain falling,
rippling on the floor
into a puddle of furious crimson.
Should she choose me,
the one whose one hand still lies free,
ravaging's overdone but done again.
Overthrow monarchies of singularity,
reign over countless bedsheet seas,
knowing we're both immortal.
And I know,
beyond shadows of doubts
that creep between eyelids as I sleep
to dream lucidly,
that infinite irregardless universal remotes will
never find her.

Sorry for the Wall O' Text, my poems tend to be a bit long. Hope ya'll enjoy.