Scents of Good Sense

Could it be possible to tell,
if somehow abstinence had a smell?

And if so,
is the fragrance sweet
or does it have an aroma of a challenge
men are unwilling to meet?

Often I've heard that sex you could sell,
but I've never been enlightened on whether
virtue had an ability to repel.

When the entrance into the love below
is no longer easily permissible,
does it make one overlooked
or possibly invisible?

See, don't get it twisted
the passions within still ablaze,
and the skills acquired
will leave him amazed.

And yes,
he'll be wanting
more and more
for days and days
to come..

But sexing is just exercise
when it's not done
with that very special someONE.

And I'm not sure if purity
will make it hard on one to date,
but when your vagina is valuable
be prepared and willing to wait...

And to stink--
with a stench
of patience and self control,
because that's what it smells like
when you're being made whole.

So if you're like me
and in their eyes you've become a skunk,
then please don't be ashamed
to embrace your funk.

An artist

I'm an artist..
which means I'm prone to love deeply,
and though I haven't yet found him
the desire for discovery takes place discreetly.

Receptive towards being found,
and if you give me a moment on that
I'll further expound.

I'm an artist..
so that means I embody the attitude of an alchemist,
always took delight in sharing the process
seeing the possibilities in the what others may miss.

A soul ready to surrender
to creative collaborations,
becoming one another's muse
simultaneously emanating inspirations.

I'm an artist..
willing to get lost just to step into the unknown,
living the adventure called life
yet no longer wanting to do it on my own.

There's a greater return when the one becomes two,
tenacity strengthened with every instance we stay true.
And that's why I poetically give of my gift,
speaking my hopes into the world so one day
they may exist.

I'm an artist..
a poet with a canvas and a painter with a pen,
writing pictures and drawing poems
until the heavens bring he and I together once again.

One Minute

Rehearsed what I would say
but silence left my lips.
Breezing like the wind,
yet wondering
why a girl like me just could not win.

Full of great intent
yet fear kept me content,
in a routine of nothingness.
Now I sit front row witnessing his bliss.

We get the choice.
And I heard the heavens saying that he was for me.

Fate pushed but I ran the other way,
Told myself that I could make a so-so situation okay.
Delay,
in what was obviously a relay for his affection.

Melancholy of a fool,
arriving a minute too late
because I had to keep my rep of playing it cool.
Or so I thought.

Love is blind--
I couldn't see.
I couldn't see.
I could not see.

And now my eyes won't shut
because he's more beautiful than I could have ever thought.
My fault--
immaturity doesn't readily heed the wise counsels advice,
so now I wish that those who knew what I didn't;
that they would have pushed me twice.

Gone in 60 seconds
made me fully aware that,
any moment beyond the whispers instruction
is potential for new love's destruction.

A midsummer night's wet dream

He addressed her biography,
enveloped her in his essay.
They stood undressed--
naked nouns.

Whispering his wants,
her hormones were heightened by his haiku.
He awakened her antonyms.

Enticed--
ignited by the way he chose to indite her.
She was gently guided by his grammar,
and he took no time to
poetically penetrate her with his prose.

Flowing in her verses--
they sweat sonnets.

Ventured verbs--
the sentences began to run off the sheets.
Turning the page--
composition change.

Together they created a climax,
and she was submerged in his synonyms.
Her well full of ink,
yet the residue from his pen
continued to drip non-fiction over her fairy tale.

Refreshed by her rhythmic rupture,
he sealed his journal.
And she love-stoned off his lyric,
fastened her diary.

Gazing back at one another,
they knew this was just the beginning
of them writing their midsummer night's
wet dream.

Imperfect Faces

I love an imperfect face.
Birth-marked,
age spotted,
or freckled.
The characters that tell the story of you.

Lip creases--
resembling the joys you've experienced
and the loves you have known.

Facial hair full of wisdom,
and the forehead lines of a thinker.
Eyes deeply set
or perhaps unequally spaced.
What the world rejects,
sets you apart from the rest.
The curves of your cheeks,
the radiance of your smile.

Strong facial features--
you were born to mirror
the appearance of kings and queens.

Every flaw was designed;
your nose is unique.
Thick lips,
to me always seem to produce the sweetest kisses.

Dark circles--
are badges of persistence,
so wear them with pride.
Because perfection is a lie,
and insecurities are never really hidden.
Leave off the mask
for your beauty is seen without the additives,
and make up is only a temporary fix.

Your face is alluring;
it's what makes you-- you.
Pure and natural,
from the day you were made.

I believe beauty is truly found in the eye of the beholder.
And I see you;
and I love what I see--
every feature of your perfectly imperfect face.

The Space In Between

What I'd really like to know--
is the distance between the closing of a door
and the opening of a window?

Just perhaps spatially speaking--
you and I are even closer
to what we've both been seeking.

.............true love...............

The Haiku Blues

Once upon a time
he was the inspiration
behind my poems.
...............................

Hoped one day he'd see
way beyond his LCD
that I do exist.
...............................

Supported his gift;
seated in the audience
as more than a fan.
................................

Him, more than a muse
and eons from just a crush
he had me smitten.
.................................

His hair is long locked
though I figured out his heart
required the key.
.................................

Learned a thing or two
about what I value most--
communication.
..................................

Maybe this is it,
the last poem I will write
for his attention.