they do not know me querida
the man who pens erotic poetry
and remembers the feel of you skin
beneath his trembling fingertips
the man who writes of volcanic kisses
and still tastes the honey of your lips
they only see the outer shell
that holds the inner soul
of a broken man
they do not know the power of memories
that still gather around my bedside
and how the fragrance of your perfume
still plays havoc with my senses at night
they think me shallow, predatory, deceitful
a man who wants only pleasures of flesh
without knowledge of sacred love
they only see the sensual poetry
my heart is well hidden behind
they don’t know us
i am a private man, keeping to himself
the beloved ghost that still haunts me
unknown man who finds temporary solace
in giving and taking pleasure with those
who find solace in the same, no destroyer
too broken to ever break another’s heart
Alas; an echo from the nautilus. Might yee be feigning, or esta from the summit of Mt. Visuvious? (Volcanic kisses)You are the Don; Show them no quarter!
At the young of age of seven, Jill's mother Eve takes her for regular sessions to a child psychologist for treatment of her anxiety, which only makes her behavior worse. When she reaches her teens, she starts drinking and then smoking marijuana with
For a time, I perched myself on a flat rock, comparing my life with the Guyandotte River. Just as its tributaries replenish it daily, changing it in some small—sometimes great—degree, so have the day-to-day occurrences of life changed me. Like the ri
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