personal blog

My chest heaves, My speech I try to weave, Its All in vain, My sentences become incoherent, My breathing not of importance as at current. Just you. What you do to me. Love or lust Or a melt of both, So different yet this brings us together As your skin blends to mine like a new layer Only more shimmering As when you sweat I can't help but stare The way your eyes Pierce into my soul The way they make me bleed with need,  And scream with want For you. You mesmerize me with your touch, Your tougue drives me to the Bliss of all ecstasy. As you fill me and take me higher to that glorious edge we all desire to burst. As my legs freeze and I am lost  in time, I remember to whisper With love. My man

When did my feelings get so deep? Why did they take that big long leap? Going from friend to crush, What a rush, And I don't think she knows. Since when did her smile make me go weak? Since when did her tears make mine start to leak? Why does this happen when I'm always so strong? When people called me Superman I guess they were wrong, And I don't think she knows. When she talks I can't help but watch her lips, To notice their shape and curves when they dip. Wait, why am I looking? I don't even know. And I can't help but wonder if she even knows. Her beautiful eyes are nothing like ours. They're so deep and bright; you'd believe they were stars They pour forth emotions in raging rivers. They could make even me believe that Santa always delivers, And still she has no idea. Her body is perfection, though she denies it. It makes my head spin with every glance I give. She could put any man under her spell, But she doesn't kno...

 Once in a while, I visit my old folks. They are still traditional and believe in the importance of stories to inculcate values and teach life lessons that would otherwise be awkward. This time was no exception.It was an early dawn and we were brewing tea in the kitchen.She began a tale about a woman who had so many children in one homestead. She lived in a shanty in the outskirts of town and every evening, she would make them sit around the fireplace watching the pot boil.They believed that soon,the food would soon be ready .One by one,they drifted of to sleep and she would put  them away to bed with tears whelming  in her eyes:'Tomorrow is a new day',that is what she lived by. Being a hawker was tough.Life on the streets was not friendly either. Sometimes, she had something to give them,most times,she played the cooking pot trick to put them to bed.It was a twisted way of giving them hope,but again,isn't that what being a mother entails? I am jolted back to rea...