I so love your skin's feel
beneath my old rough fingers
e'en after a caress I steal
the memory still lingers

As touch moves on to gentle cleft
I'm filled with anticipation
of patience I am now bereft
please fill my expectation

And as each little roundish nub
also begs for attention
calling out for a light rub
and a poem's lyric mention

Just the sight of your soft curves
fills me with such delight
and never ever fails to serve
to enrich my appetite

`

Gnarly fingers
veil his face,
skin thin and crusty
at spots:
splotched parchment
of years in the sun

water
cascades
from his forehead to
his chin
then meets gravity;
raindrops

through his soil-grimed
singlet, jeans and boots;
hours of toil
simmer away
in rivulets
of forgetfulness.

`

Sadness has a sound, friend.
I have heard it
sobbing, weeping in the throat of the widow
and the children.
All wrapped up in quilts;
quilts of happy colors;
as if that will change anything.

Tears run freely down my face.

I am hearing of violence and upheaval in your country.

This athiest prays deeply for your safety,

my dearest friend,

if you you need to leave your country

I will do all I can to help.

If I can come there and help with the struggle

I will

You have saved my life with your love and compassion

I will not be powerless.

Tell me what is happening

and what I can do.

beneath my facade
million untold stories
have metamorphized

a fire within
rages before erupting
volcanic lava

I pioneered
the stone age evolution
with my flint of fire

I bear the brunt of
memorials and relics
for posterity

from my nethers springs
the elixir that quenches
thirsty souls and soil

I am bewildered
by that idiotic phrase
"as dead as a stone"

“From mom and dad dec 83’ “

That was the first thing I viewed
As I opened the book
At the half price book store.

How did this wonderful book
End up here?
The pages were aged
And darkened,
And I remembered reading it
In the early eighties.

Just a material possession, for sure,
But, it was those words,
Those very special words,
That were written, very small
Inside the back cover.
It meant something
To the “mom and dad”
Who had purchased this book
For their child.

Liquid thoughts darkens my soul.
A storm on the horizon of my heart.
Wicked muses entangles deeper than
my spirit. Brainworks burn my psyche.
The crimson flows deep and intense.
So painful, I can live no longer.

Poetry is the living soul of a writer
By Pixee

Migraines consume
every part of this hollow shell, that contains
my psyche.
home.

The potency of the brain ruch is astounding.
I cry scarlet tears. . .

As the ripples fade into the distance
Small waves lap at memories' shores
Eroding the edges
Echoing back to me
The words I said
Seem distorted now
I shouted loud enough...
It's not my fault
You weren't paying attention

Innocence ripped to shreds, 
belittled, left bleeding
Fucked over left for dead,
Pat the perpetrator on the back
Make them feel welcome 

Pluck hearts out
twist and burn.
Give them a tv and games console,
Make them feel cosy,

Government rewards the aggressor
protects his human rights.
Whilst the victim becomes the villain,
And goes through Hell.

Distant Future

All men and women won’t cheat,
They’ll love short term relationships.
But all males would like to sleep
With as many women,
I can't say those now days,
It’s any different for men...