Learn more about other poetry terms
Love is a song, the most tender kind. A gentle stroke of give and take. A feeling of confusion, an adrenaline rush coursing through your veins.
Press against my begging blossom, Reaching for Thy tender kiss. As I quiver beneath your bosom, Fill my womanhood With bliss. For I trust you with such bounty, Take away
My name is insanity. See the way my teeth bleed, My eyes shine, My cackles echo through the corridors of night. Do you see my stretching smile? I know you do.
The woman's tears were beautiful; the rarest things tend to be. The less a fragile soul is seen, the more tender and sweet it seems.
How strange That hands so gentle could touch with such fury And damage so intensely. How strange That hands so rough could touch the hearts of so many SO tenderly. How strange
Love you I can never not Or never ought Nor never thought I'd ever not be able to stop Able to fight Wary my flight
my soul is an attic; there are dust particles floating and settling all around. my memories lie, scattered upon decrepit, creaky shelves and doubtful, broken staircases.
Though I know you not, I’m compelled to write Of your beauty, and nature so tender Your smile radiates, And shine like moonlight.