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Sexy Poetry: Poem...
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Kamand Kojouri
“It offends me when you doubt my love.
These jealousies are unwarranted.
If only you lived in my head for a day,
you’d see that you live eternally in my heart.
Try it for yourself. Take this knife to my chest
and you will find that I bleed
you.
Cast your suspicions to the wind
for there will never come a time
when I will not love you.
Does the sea get bored of kissing
the shore’s feet?
Cast your suspicions to the wind
and let us get drunk off each other.
"Don’t fall in love with a poet,” they warn you.
But they don’t know that galaxies
circumambulate you.
They don’t see that the waves of your hair
are where stars go to die.
They don’t hear how your voice
is the sound of flowers blooming.
Cast your suspicions to the wind
and come spend your life with me.
There will never come a time
when I will not be in love with you.”
Kamand Kojouri

Roman Payne
“You must give everything to make your life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in your imagination.”
Roman Payne

Erik Pevernagie
“Let us take care of our Garden of Eden with the fragrance of its flowers and the oxygen of its sheltering trees and savor the fruits of each precious single moment ever since life can be a sparkling ballet expressing the beauties and values that enlighten and enrich us. ( "Why step out of nature?")”
Erik Pevernagie

Aleksandra Ninković
“I had a dream about you. It's been a while since I could remember any of my dreams, and still, this one has left me with such strong impression. Even now, when I am fully awake, your face flashes before my eyes. It's a face I can totally relate to, as if it wasn't any more yours than it is mine. Terrifying thing, you know? I can't say I've felt that sort of intimacy with anyone. For a moment you knew all my secrets, without me even having to tell them. For a moment I even knew them myself…

While I was looking into your eyes, I suddenly started to realize things about myself that were unspoken for years, like fragments of my inner life that were deeply repressed. It’s hard to distinguish if they were buried inside because dealing with them was such a dirty work, or if leaving them unnamed meant that it was not possible to define them precisely enough, so they would keep their true meaning. Perhaps, all this life that I've known so far was in fact no more but a dream about living. The only thing that has kept me in touch with reality was you…

I know it comes as a surprise, and you may be wondering why it took me so long to come clean. You also may be wondering how come you've never noticed before. I've tricked you on purpose, yes, and you must realize it really has nothing to do with you. It’s always been me. This is why, seeing you in my dream like that, came out as a shock. You also must forgive me. You must forgive me because I know how it looks like, that everything we ever shared was a lie, and it wasn't…

I am more of an illusionist that a deceiver, but it all comes from being in fact, a very private person. Even if it was true that you knew me better than anyone, I’d never admit it. I’d rather dig my own heart out, with a rotten spoon, than admitting it. I may let people in my own little world occasionally, but I would never let them be aware of it. I don’t throw my intimacy in front of others, especially when I care. The more I care, the less I give away, and this is something for you to understand, and grant me your forgiveness. I didn't play my tricks on you in order to deceive you, but rather to save myself, and maybe even deceive myself as well. I’ve had hidden my feelings for you so deeply that I've learned to live with them, as if any other casualty. I have done wrong to myself as much as I did to you, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself. So now I wonder, could you forgive me without feeling sorry for me? I certainly don’t deserve your pity. Especially not now that I am awake.”
Aleksandra Ninkovic, Dreaming is for lovers

Oscar Wilde
“The purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet heavy perfume.”
Oscar Wilde, The Birthday of the Infanta

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