Peeping Tom

A floral scent makes him pause

Beside the slightly ajar bathroom door.

He can feel a heat on his skin

That the warm hallway didn’t cause.

A sensation that he can’t ignore

Begins to radiate from within.

Silently, he turns to look inside.

The image of her water-soaked form

Meets his eagerly nervous eyes.

His calm expression does hide

Lustful feelings building like a storm,

Watching a slender leg rise

From the depths of bubble-filled water,

To be met with tantalising fingers

Rubbing the flesh with a lotion.

Standing in the shadows watching her

Hand move up her thigh and lingers

Between her legs with a devotion.

Head thrown back, open mouth,

A face contorted with pleasure,

Hips thrusting towards her palm.

A rippling wave from down south,

Body shaking for good measure,

No effort made to keep calm.

He takes a sudden breath, deep,

That he’d been holding inside

Alarmed, she looks towards the sound

And into the eyes of the peep.

With a smirk she opens her legs wide,

To let him know he’s been found.

Raising a finger to beckon him in,

Then moving it down, touching more,

Slowly picking up the pace.

Not quite believing his win,

He turns to close the bathroom door,

And clicks the lock into place.











I started as One

Individual, Lone, Singular

We met and became Two

Partners, Companions, Soulmates

Then our Two turned into Three




One Thing That Will Never Change

I write, but I’m not a writer
I pretend, but I’m not a faker
I lash out, but I’m not a fighter
I cook, but I’m not a baker
I draw, but I’m not an artist
I educate, but I’m not a teacher
I’m clever, but I’m not the smartest
I preach, but I’m not a preacher
I’m brave, but I’m not unafraid
I adore, but I’m not a lover
I clean, but I’m not a maid
I’m pregnant – so soon I will ALWAYS be a mother

Puppy Love

I have a little puppy
Who won’t let me write
She’s totally adorable
All black and white
But she’ll chew on every pen
That I leave in sight
She’ll lie on my notebook
And try as I might
I can’t take it off her
Without having the sight
Of her sad little eyes
That are usually bright
All full of woe that
I won’t play tonight
So I’ll throw her a ball
Give her bones to bite
Chase her around
And have a play fight
Until she gets sleepy
I will cuddle her tight
All curled in my arms
So soft and so light
Too cute to put down
I give up, I won’t write.

New Notebook

I have a new notebook
It might not seem much
But I love blank white pages
And how they’re soft to touch
It’s like an empty canvas
That lasts for weeks and weeks
It’s begging for the pen
That allows my mind to speak
Soon to be filled up
With words and occasional rhyme
Scribbles and odd blotches
Gradual drink stains over time
It will be my companion
Each and every day
And even when it’s full
It won’t be thrown away
Always close at hand
To fulfil my every whim
Close to a few pens
Extensions of my limb
It will be so important
For a portion of my year
Then it will join others
That my past holds dear
I have a new notebook
It might not seem much
But I love it so dearly
My brand new crutch

Artwork of a Lifetime

There’s a drawing on my minds wall
That spans nearly two and a half decades.
It began as a faint sketching quite small
And if you concentrate too hard it fades.
As the artists confidence grew, so did the scrawl
And simplistic colours developed new shades.
It slowly spread as wide as it was tall,
Surviving through everything, it never degrades.

It’s a collage of emotions, people and places.
Some are more clear and others less defined,
With vibrant colours and visible faces,
The most important ones are outlined
By a thick black pen minimising spaces.
Even the less obvious ones aren’t left behind,
They might be faded, but their image graces
The drawing that covers the wall in my mind.

There’s a mix of experience and memory
Covering every inch of empty space there.
No mere words can describe it’s vibrancy.
You’ll keep noticing new things the more you stare,
But there is one thing you won’t see…
An image of myself can’t be painted anywhere
Because only at the end if my life will it be
Possible for the artist of my mind to be aware.

It’s impossible for me to pretend
That I have even the smallest idea
Of who I am, or how to extend
The power of my mind to get near
To understanding what is penned
In my personality or how I appear.
So I hope that when I am at my end,
My true identity can be painted clear.

Numb Confusion

I keep trying to express
how I feel about you
in words.
Prose or poetry – I don’t care,
just words, any words!
I can’t understand my own thoughts.
I don’t have any emotions.
But that’s impossible.
How can I be numb to someone that was my entire world?
How can I not miss you?
How can I read the things you write…
and feel nothing?
Yet, without you, I’m incomplete.
You don’t make me happy,
but I’m not happy without you.
I don’t want to waste my time
indulging in pointless conversations
that lead to no where,
but nor do I want to stop talking.
How do I know,
whether it’s just you that I don’t want…
or whether there’s nothing I want?
How do I comprehend myself?