Verbs, Adverbs and Proverbs

If I had a way with words I'd be a writer, an author or a novelist; what's the difference?
But I'd need an imagination too I guess
I'd let my words chase my ideas or is it the other way around?
I can't be too sure
I'd let my fingers do that little keyboard dance; type, erase, delete and backspace
Watch the story come to life
Maybe my own, maybe someone else's
Told in real time
Or an incoherent collection of memeories so fuzzy I gotta fill in the blanks
I'd laugh at my own jokes too as I typed
Then I'd promptly delete them cos they're not so funny anyway
Trust me, you had to be there
I'd welcome that insomnia though
You know the one
You've got work in the morning so you slide under the blankets
Then your brain forms a rhyme or two
And you think up anothor one
Commit it to memory so you can write it down tomorrow
But you get out of bed anyway cos you know you'll forget
Now you can't sleep but you can't finish the story anyway
Cos all you've got is a disjointed paragraph that makes no sense
Why did I get out of bed again?
You took too long now the story's all gone
Whatever you wrote down is all wrong anyway
So you delete, erase and backspace
Empty page, blank slate

That's why I'm not a writer. Or an author. Or a novelist
What's the difference?

Untitled by Checkmate and Lifesmith

Whilst my feminine side blushes…
Rounded flesh, carved skin
Thighs to wet with kisses dried
Smooth coco-butter skin
Soft as velvet, I won’t forget
Fingers find openings
Closed gaps desired more

This is the night of man and woman
Finding frolic on mountainous bosoms
Hiding in the dark of alleys
Fingers making tongue jealous
Tongue makes man’s inner brew
Sensing more than tasting
Tasting more than feeling
Feeling this drunken desire
Staggering in the emotion stirred
By two souls conjoined under the African moon
Swaying together in a primitive lycanthropic dance

Kisses lose meaning
Breasts melt
Welcoming pending eruption
Violent is the love we make
And our bodies tremble as we lose control
With no sense of inhibition

True black,
Becomes shiny as we explode
Bathing our thighs in us
A story to wound even the most abstract thoughts of despair
Our drunken tour ends
Only to begin again
As we drown in a river of lust
And bask in the glory of infatuation
Hands cover thighs tracing skin
With a grip meant to suffocate
Die in our love,
Be reborn at the end of our pleasures
Reliving this fantasy
And escaping reality
Welcome to my world

Blank Pages and No Ink

I trail an inkless pen across fading paper
Hoping for a flood of inspired creativity
I keep my window open, waiting for a gale
Darting eyes to the phone, perhaps the words will call
Or the roof caves in and a line or two will fall
I’ve got my stereo turned down so Beethoven whispers in my ear
But the violin remains cold and the piano will not fold
His rusty cello strings laugh at my frustration
The synchronized orchestra a welcome intrusion
It’s last call at the café and the barista grows impatient
But I’ll sit here resilient because I know that it will come to me
Of this I’m confident

Quixotic Demons

Unclear horizons fade into slippery slopes
Where feathery clouds kiss unknown depths
Once beautiful and fragrant roses
Now baring vulgar thorns,
Stinging nettles tearing at raw flesh
That beating heart, that loud thumping drum
With its awful, woeful rhythm
Don’t slip into its trance
Don’t lose your wings, dear flightless bird
Those wings that flap lifelessly
Drained of all colour, devoid of all strength
A sign of lost glory, more of a burden now
One wish come true, the rest a transparent hope
Of a phoenix rising from ashen emptiness
But it’s not a guarantee, closer to a prayer
Knees scarred with callouses are
A constant reminder of accusing pasts
Spiralling forth into a convicted future
But the chaos is welcome
And the confusion is home
There’s no redemption for the damned

Poet's Passport

Of love for words;
Superfluously ingenious creativity
Intrinsically inspired,
Just a flow of emotion
Oft times a trickle
Sometimes an eruption
Pause…

An eraser perhaps
A new beginning
Non-existent worlds
And unfulfilled dreams
The pleasure of imagination
The lack of a destination
Just a simple outlet
Harmless from the onset
Exhale…

Blank pages and black ink
No need for an audience
It’s not a search for respect
Just Meaningless ramblings
The musings of a madman
But hey
I’ve got my poet’s passport
Relax…