Words can convey so much more than most know.
A poet can make someone smile, laugh, or cry, and weep
All in the same collection of syllables forming words

A poet can push a person's mind until the heart bursts with happiness, breaks from deep sadness, and dies down right frightened.  All from words formed into sentences

Poets can create a scene of great disdain or nothing but frivolous faire in one sentence turning it to deep concentration hunting for resolution from sentences creating stanzas.

Poets paint a picture that can't be seen by a passerby or displayed in a window case.   It can be placed in plain site something of ******* nature yet unless looked into deeply will never be seen.  As stanzas form a poem that paints that picture

Poets sometimes can only paint basic emotion with words yet some can pull raw lustful emotion from deep in the soul.  Syllables to words bring excitement and desire.  Excitement, need, and release like two bodies locked together in sweaty heated embraces

Poets bringing syllables to words to sentences can capture ones longing carrying along to paragraphs that feel, hear, taste, smell, and see the burning need that the stanzas envoke the basics of carnal lust to break free like a caged lion whose food lay just outside the cage

Poets bring to close the paragraphs that wrap it all together Can you feel the sunlight against naked flesh so warm reflecting off beads of perspiration?  Can you taste the deliciousness of her desire upon ruby lips?  Or from the moisture that coats his fingers as they glide easily through silken petals?  

Poets continue painting with words, stanzas and paragraphs moving to hearing.  Can you hear the cries and pleas begging as desire builds to uncontrollable heights? Feeling. Hearing. Tasting. What is left the poet thinks. Ahhhhh to see and to smell

Poets syllables to words, stanzas, to paragraphs moving towards the pinnacle of rapture their every desire for the reader to see. Hius tongue lavishes the sweet flesh, tasting the musky desire as hands caress and pull upon tender buds of pleasure, the pants, moans, mews, cries, grunts, screams, mix together to form to a crescendoing of music

Continuing as pools of deep blue suffocate emeralds that look back. A growl followed by a almost hedonistic finale as the beings are rocked to their core. The syllables, words, stanzas, paragraphs almost to the picture seeing as the golden dagger of despair is plunged into the innocent heart.  Mixture of musky sweetness glistening upon flesh as red rivers flow to meet and mingle, swirling against the pale white.  The punget rust mixed with essence of bliss finishes the painting.

Poet started with syllables to words on to stanzas then paragraphs drawing from happiness, love to desire, need, release, slammed into the abyss of pain, despair and a private hell only each person viewing the poet's work can explain to themselves and perhaps share with another.

Bashfulness, Happiness, eagerness, apprehension, desire, need, fire, pleasure, release, pain, excruciating pain, lonely, despair, abysmal sadness, depression

The picture painted yet not with colors on canvas but with words on paper.  The mind fills in the forms, colors, and lives the sentence of taste, touch, sight, noise, and of course the smell.  If the poet is truly good one might find they actually do get a whiff of what is writen caressing their nasal pathways.

Written by Niyahlove.  :-)  All rights reserved please be respectful November 2, 2014

If there are words to be heard in this thumping
As the black turns to grey through the lighting,
If dew is drowned and white walls are tainted
As the oldest colours have all faded,
If the morning songs of the birds
Are only in our hearts to be heard,
Then teach, me morning the peace you bring!
If the beady eyed flow stream of pilgrims
If the slippers splinter and splash the water film
And brazen lights splatter the black recipient
With a hissing, oh so inconvenient,
If the keeper’s morning cigarette
And the perfume of the fresh baguette
Enlace as lovers within my nose.
If the bananas seem strangely lit,
Under the glow of white tungsten hilt
And the craving of a lazy sleep
Has laid the newspapers in such a heep.
And if radios blare the sad morning news
I do not look for the blessings of a muse,
I have found in my morning bread run.

Im weak

Im weak against you
your smell, your smile.
The warmth it drives me wild
Your touch sets my body ablaze,
my mind goes in a dreamy haze.
I'm so amazed.
My **** little secret, so ***** so wild.
My hottest fantasy not for a child.
I look at you my mind blanks out.
The things I would do to you would make you scream and shout.
I'm weak against the temptation,
the disease I call your flesh.
You drive my body crazy there is no rest.
I'm weak.

I didn't know it was possible
to smell you on my skin
so long after I had scrubbed away
any evidence that you had been there

yet you still linger
a ghost among my perfume
miles away
and alive in my senses

-h.w.

There is never a moment that I cease to breathe you.  
You smell like pine,  a forest full of nature's wonders.
I smell asphalt, a thousand roads traveled together.
My nose picks up musty, brittle letters between the two of us.
Pieces of leaves and grass pressed, from thickets around footprints.
I travel through many worlds because of my nose.
It leads me,  guides me, and at times, controls me.  
I let go slowly, as I return all of our memories back to the small keepsake, and I close the sock drawer.