beauty, Drinks, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

In Warmth

With your laced clothing,
you resplend an aura
that smells of lust and raging whiskey,

the ice fed hands trace your fragile
and sensitive breasts, as you unhook your bra.
With my warm tongue, I lick the chocolate over your pointed nipples.
You caress your fingers with the water between your legs.

I tear away your black panties,
and I am sure you wished for the sooner of it.
I come inside you, inside us
as we tremble as terrified horses
riding in the storm, embracing and feasting
on one another.

Your hips turn warm,
The legs go tired,
we climax in each other arms
and wait to begin again,
in the sunlight, we escaped from.

beauty, Death, Drinks, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry


This guy got me thinking,
through delirium and despair
with sprinkles of madness over
a flesh with a weak heart sewed
over layers of hope.

the ones who write about uncertainty,
death and creating hope out of it are the real writers that made me feel something.

Dostoevsky was the zenith of it.

The Rest writers nowadays are selling themselves, mushrooming like burger joints, using layers of cheesy love and regret to get noticed.


Desire, dream, Drinks, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Imagine, Life, Love, Poems, poetry