Mornings

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  • Passion

    Mornings
    Tender folds of cool sheets, drink thirstfully of passions heat. Feathered graze along your hips, lighting fire with your fingertips. Tasting traces travel my swollen nipples, windows breeze blown shivering ripples. Electric sizzles cruise your veined impulse, tingling in throws we toss. Heaving breathless drips in sweat, oblivious with no regrets. Consumed total and whole, heights reached beyond control. Cold sheets tender folds.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    tink’s Poems (21)

    Title Comments Submitted
    Title Comments Submitted
    Sweet Joy 2 03/22/2009
    Lost 0 03/22/2009
    Buried Treasure 0 03/22/2009
    Tarnished Angel 2 03/22/2009
    Promised Soul 0 03/22/2009
    Waiting 0 03/22/2009
    Carried Away 0 03/22/2009
    Daydreams Tears 0 03/22/2009
    Hoping 0 03/22/2009
    Loves Essence 0 03/22/2009
    Love Gone 0 03/22/2009
    Wonderous Dream 0 03/22/2009
    The Craving 1 03/22/2009
    The day the angel sings 0 03/22/2009
    Private Escape 1 03/22/2009
    Lifemates 0 03/22/2009
    Dream Shelf 0 03/22/2009
    Masters Hand 3 03/22/2009
    Where Memorys Echo 0 03/22/2009
    Mornings 0 03/22/2009
    Love at First Sight 0 03/22/2009
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