Hello everybody,
Hope you all are having a good 2023.
I have recently started writing poetry and I am enjoying doing it very much.
The challenge at the moment is to get people to be open about it and to be willing to read it and comment on it as my poetry often is very sexual.
I was wondering if anybody here could give me a feedback / first impressions in regards to how sensitive this topic is to you and obviously your overall opinion on the piece below. Would appreciate any feedback:
Butterfly pattern.
Her water was filled with ice to the very brink.
Capped with a clear plastic cover.
He could see the cubes of ice drowning.
Glancing at him
Unwilling to melt
Unwilling to give up their perfect rigid structure.
His drink on the other hand
Was a steaming hot coffee.
It was standing in front of him
On the edge of a flimsy round table.
He was almost surprised
that the coffee somehow was not bubbling over
through the tiny opening at the top of his cup.
But it did truly
constantly
feel
as if that threat was approaching.
Just to slowly recede.
And then
she was moving her leg across.
Touching his
under the table.
Bringing the feelings to the boiling point
once more.
Cafe was crowded.
Tables full of strangers
busy with their own depiction of a morning.
Although
it probably did not matter,
They talked about the weather,
About her likings,
About the sweet slushy drinks
with a peculiar names
That she could not recall.
About the joy the sugar brings
Taste lingering in your mouth
Just enough,
To keep you satisfied
Until the next sip.
Then he digressed for a while.
Not listening.
Seeing her lips move.
Hushed, blurred sounds lost distinction.
His thoughts sidetracked
towards humans’ complete failure
to resist temptation.
‘So be it.’ - he thought,
finally exhaling,
Noticing again the same desire
in her hazel eyes.
As if to contradict
his point of view,
his notion of her as a women,
She DID resist instead.
She resisted his energy and his vigor,
she knew he had in abundance.
Resisted falling in love with his smile,
Offering hers in return.
Resisted taking him upstairs right away.
Choosing to stay here, sipping plain water,
Marking with the red lipstick
only the side of her cup lid.
And while doing so
she enjoyed every moment of it.
She wore a beautiful blue dress
sprinkled with butterflies all around
from top to bottom,
Every one of them with wings fully open,
ready for an adventure.
He looked at her eagerly,
his thoughts hidden
behind slow, firm gestures,
but his own impatience
Started to irritate him a bit
‘Why ARE we this way?’
He pondered
trying to ease his frustration.
‘So beautiful, so chaotic.
Giving up a step, just to take back three.
Teasing a kiss, just to turn the face away.
Smiling softly and gently
almost winking
Just before we frown.
Is that self realization or self deceit?
Maybe we are
like butterflies
continuously and knowingly caught
by the gusts of wind on the wild meadow.
Up and down.
Again.
And again.
Does the butterfly know that the summer end is near?
Does it matter in that moment of pleasure?
Of pure joy.
We all want to live today, not tomorrow.
Is not chaotic butterfly pattern
Best proof of that?
We do all the same things
over and over.
In the most disorganized way possible.
Just to delay important questions.
That butterfly dance is our solution.
It does not require an answer.
There is no need knowing.
It is as if
culmination was not an end goal.
However pleasant it might be.
The flamboyant chaotic dance
as a purposeful waste of energy.’
***
Once they finally went upstairs.
Their dance
resulted
In her squirting all over the floor
Marking the sofa,
his hands,
his T shirt nearby,
as both his fingers inside her
cramped under the strain of her convulsions.
He kept at it nevertheless
Until she let go of him,
Her body relaxing,
Sinking into the soft sofa pillows.
At the end
she resisted
giving him exactly what he wanted.
He had to be satisfied with the variation of pleasure.
Her pleasure instead of his.
Was it even worth it?
Abso
Fucking
Lutely.
Sep 11 2023
Hope you all are having a good 2023.
I have recently started writing poetry and I am enjoying doing it very much.
The challenge at the moment is to get people to be open about it and to be willing to read it and comment on it as my poetry often is very sexual.
I was wondering if anybody here could give me a feedback / first impressions in regards to how sensitive this topic is to you and obviously your overall opinion on the piece below. Would appreciate any feedback:
Butterfly pattern.
Her water was filled with ice to the very brink.
Capped with a clear plastic cover.
He could see the cubes of ice drowning.
Glancing at him
Unwilling to melt
Unwilling to give up their perfect rigid structure.
His drink on the other hand
Was a steaming hot coffee.
It was standing in front of him
On the edge of a flimsy round table.
He was almost surprised
that the coffee somehow was not bubbling over
through the tiny opening at the top of his cup.
But it did truly
constantly
feel
as if that threat was approaching.
Just to slowly recede.
And then
she was moving her leg across.
Touching his
under the table.
Bringing the feelings to the boiling point
once more.
Cafe was crowded.
Tables full of strangers
busy with their own depiction of a morning.
Although
it probably did not matter,
They talked about the weather,
About her likings,
About the sweet slushy drinks
with a peculiar names
That she could not recall.
About the joy the sugar brings
Taste lingering in your mouth
Just enough,
To keep you satisfied
Until the next sip.
Then he digressed for a while.
Not listening.
Seeing her lips move.
Hushed, blurred sounds lost distinction.
His thoughts sidetracked
towards humans’ complete failure
to resist temptation.
‘So be it.’ - he thought,
finally exhaling,
Noticing again the same desire
in her hazel eyes.
As if to contradict
his point of view,
his notion of her as a women,
She DID resist instead.
She resisted his energy and his vigor,
she knew he had in abundance.
Resisted falling in love with his smile,
Offering hers in return.
Resisted taking him upstairs right away.
Choosing to stay here, sipping plain water,
Marking with the red lipstick
only the side of her cup lid.
And while doing so
she enjoyed every moment of it.
She wore a beautiful blue dress
sprinkled with butterflies all around
from top to bottom,
Every one of them with wings fully open,
ready for an adventure.
He looked at her eagerly,
his thoughts hidden
behind slow, firm gestures,
but his own impatience
Started to irritate him a bit
‘Why ARE we this way?’
He pondered
trying to ease his frustration.
‘So beautiful, so chaotic.
Giving up a step, just to take back three.
Teasing a kiss, just to turn the face away.
Smiling softly and gently
almost winking
Just before we frown.
Is that self realization or self deceit?
Maybe we are
like butterflies
continuously and knowingly caught
by the gusts of wind on the wild meadow.
Up and down.
Again.
And again.
Does the butterfly know that the summer end is near?
Does it matter in that moment of pleasure?
Of pure joy.
We all want to live today, not tomorrow.
Is not chaotic butterfly pattern
Best proof of that?
We do all the same things
over and over.
In the most disorganized way possible.
Just to delay important questions.
That butterfly dance is our solution.
It does not require an answer.
There is no need knowing.
It is as if
culmination was not an end goal.
However pleasant it might be.
The flamboyant chaotic dance
as a purposeful waste of energy.’
***
Once they finally went upstairs.
Their dance
resulted
In her squirting all over the floor
Marking the sofa,
his hands,
his T shirt nearby,
as both his fingers inside her
cramped under the strain of her convulsions.
He kept at it nevertheless
Until she let go of him,
Her body relaxing,
Sinking into the soft sofa pillows.
At the end
she resisted
giving him exactly what he wanted.
He had to be satisfied with the variation of pleasure.
Her pleasure instead of his.
Was it even worth it?
Abso
Fucking
Lutely.
Sep 11 2023