A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

I love the way you glow,
the way you stand like a man,
the way you entrance me
with your romantic hands.
The masculine smell from your
chest shifts in vivid depths
over my flesh, your breath
blowing through my hair
as I stare at the heavens
of your handsomeness.
You are a million reasons
that makes me believe and see
peace when I’m surrounded
by your endearing existence.
I am aching to play with you,
feel my fingernails gliding
around your waist, the arousal
climbing higher as I explore
your form, diving into your
wild succulence.

I've heard that the eyes never lie.
I hope that isn't true.

For every time you watch her walk by,
My eyes are drawn to you.

At Eighteen a woman is like a football,
Twenty two men running after her to score.
After Fifty a woman is like a Table Tennis Ball,
One man pushing her to the other.
15/9/2020

Failed once, failed twice
But be optimistic, that's the advice
I wonder, when I'm allowed to cry
And finally let go, and open my eye
To accept the way I'm, with flaws,
And Imperfections all around cause
I am not comfortable with winning
Yet, I'm really alright with failing once again.

Wrote Fr. James Torrens S.J.
To me.

I always feel that I could have

delivered  great poems if

I had waited a little more time

for my creative mind to work.

I also feel, even to state this,

I could have waited

for a little more time.