Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there.
Three times I drove the demon out,
Though on my brow was evil sweat. . . .
And yet I know beyond a doubt
He’ll get me yet, he’ll get me yet.
I know I’m mad, I ought to tell
The doctors, let them care for me,
Confine me in a padded cell
And never, never set me free;
But Oh how cruel that would be!
For I am young – and comely too . . .
Yet dim my demon I can see,
And there is but one thing to do.
Three times I beat the foul fiend back;
The fourth, I know he will prevail,
And so I’ll seek the railway track
And lay my head upon the rail,
And sight the dark and distant train,
And hear its thunder louder roll,
Coming to crush my cursed brain . . .
Oh God, have mercy on my soul!
Lust Poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Lust is what I speak tonight,
Lust is what I see tonight,
Lust is what I feel tonight,
And I Lust You.
Show me your Body
inside out…
no clothes on,
no holds barred…
bit by bit,
part by part,
give me your smells,
and your sweat…
give me what all you have
every naked bit of yours,
I want to see All of yours.
feel my hands
feel my legs
feel my torso
my body begs…
Come on me
and make me wet
juices flowing…
feel the heat…
together, we’ll
make ‘us’ meet.
If Lust be sin,
So be it…
For I am a Woman,
And you a Man.
How can I love you
and not lust you?
For Me,
Love and Lust,
go hand in hand…
for I am a Woman
and you are my Man.
Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord, If I Contend Poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum:
verumtamen justa loquar ad te:
Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c.
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build — but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.
The Deceptive Eye Poem by Theo Williams
Eyes are the windows to each and every soul
That articulates a story in every perspective
Seeping when sad and tightened when angry
But can lie to us ‘cause they’re deceptive.
For our eyes lie to each and every one of us
Unable to fathom what we’re capable of
No one has seen what our eyes have seen
Which could vary from hatred to love.
Eyes close and bring darkness upon us
For some, a reality unseen
This deception can cause misconception
That traps us within a dream.
Eyes can reveal a human’s personality
But illusorily hide their story
Misguiding reasons behind a tear
By which the eyes lie is mandatory.
But what if these eyes did not lie and only told the truth?
Would pain befall everyone for the truth we all lust?
Would all be revealed inside?
Or would a young child’s eyes, be something you still trust?
A Last Word Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o’er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where’s rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.
The Freaks Poem by Kamala Das
He talks, turning a sun-stained
Cheek to me, his mouth, a dark
Cavern, where stalactites of
Uneven teeth gleam, his right
Hand on my knee, while our minds
Are willed to race towards love;
But, they only wander, tripping
Idly over puddles of
Desire. …. .Can this man with
Nimble finger-tips unleash
Nothing more alive than the
Skin’s lazy hungers? Who can
Help us who have lived so long
And have failed in love? The heart,
An empty cistern, waiting
Through long hours, fills itself
With coiling snakes of silence. …..
I am a freak. It’s only
To save my face, I flaunt, at
Times, a grand, flamboyant lust.
*** Love Or Lust *** Poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
The drought kills the thirst
Harvest is a rarity
Dry winds dance in skin deep heat
Leaves abandon trees
Grounds crack in branches
I walk in pain
As needles climb up my feet
My lungs shiver of dryness
My heart pumps like a drum beat
Somewhere under the canopy
Of the velvet sky
A woman in tan
Waving to me
To join her party
Dig and cover
A gravely game
Insecurity permissible
Immaturity formidable
When you incline
Rose isn’t dead yet
But for you to grow them
In a killing field where
Love and lust
Collide
PS: Love and lust come from the mind.Its all in the mind and from the mind.Heart is only to make love look so nice and beautiful.Heart only function as a generator to supply nutrients and oxygen to our bodies.If the heart stops, we die.Love and lust is a mind game.It will remain in the brain depend on how serious or critical the amount of love that we have recieved.
Remember it takes two to tango.Love can not fly with a single wing.
A Poet For A Lover (Adult) Poem by Cj Heck
Give me a poet for a lover
whose words stroke me like velvet hands.
Word-tender caresses more reaching
than the caress of a mere mortal man.
A poet’s light touch is so gentle.
Word-fingers probe deep every time,
arousing me, haunting me, wetting me,
seducing me, body and mind.
Oh Lord,
give me a poet for a lover.
Lust and fire burn in his heart.
A silver-tongued devil whose words make me ache
to be on my knees in the dark.
Word-foreplay making me want him,
only mind-loved, I want to be free
to feel just one time, my poet inside,
where only mind-lust up to now has loved me.
Anarchy Poem by John McCrae
I saw a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.
“Speak not of God! In centuries that word
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we.”
And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
And o’er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
A Dead Boche Poem by Robert Graves
To you who’d read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)
‘War’s Hell! ‘ and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:
Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.
