Secret Love

You never told me how you felt about me,
but now that I have discovered your secret,
somehow, I burn in the fires of jealousy.
My heart torments me, whispering unsolicited scenarios
of what could have been or what could be.
Seeing you with him, I whisper to myself,
It should have been you and me;
at the time, other lovers occupied my time,
so I couldn’t clearly see how you looked at me.
Maybe, I was always yours — in my heart, subconsciously
destined to discover your true feelings inevitably.
When you see her again don’t be angry,
but for the record, it was your closest
and most trusted friend that
revealed it to me.

Passionate Release

She is beautiful in her desire
Denying her heart’s feelings no longer
Her want for him only grows stronger
Her soul is deep refreshing water
And her heart is blue fire

The rhythm of her amorous fingers
Causes her erotic whispers
To become euphoric screams that grow louder
She calls his name as if he is inside her
Passionately letting go right after the last letter





The Darkness of Secrets

The womb of past secrets is stretched in agony,
longing to give birth to what is long hidden and unspeakable;
but its child is stillborn and unmourned,
because dark whispers do not make it past closed doors,
to tell accounts of what was — and the pain that still lingers.
Vengeance is dreamed of, and always tingling on the tips of the fingers.
The heart refuses to fully heal, until there is a reckoning of monsters.
They can no longer live in hiding, plotting; planning.
They must be drawn out, and utterly rooted out by their victims, limb by limb;
even the blood, bone, and sinew of them must not remain.
Nothing shall be left of them — not even the whispers of their names.
After they inflicted anguish, torment and pain
nothing again, ever again, was the same.

Innermost

The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour.


Secret Diaries

Erotic shadows move in silent ecstasy.
If only walls could speak and tell of what they see.
White lights highlight motions of passion;
The figures on the wall move fluidly,
As if in a coordinated ballet of sensuality.
In rhythmic fashion they move fast, and then slowly;
If only walls could hear the exchanges of intimate whispers
And untamed screams of ecstasy—
Still, they keep long records of unrestricted pleasure
Of lovers in secret diaries.

Anna’s Story

Her plight is suffering; her plight is pain
A seemingly incessant and perpetual rain
She is misunderstood by those she knows
Who dismiss her sorrow and deride her woes
With arrogance they laugh at her secret plight
If they only knew her struggle and fight
She has suffered in silence for many years
She has kept her secret and hidden her fears
A woman abandoned by those she loved
Abused and traumatized; Deprived of love
It has taken a toll on her precious mind
For her mental health has been in decline
Her treatments and therapy have never helped
So she lives with the anguish inside of herself
She self-medicates to numb the pain
This is a story of sorrow;
Anna is her name.