I am an imperfect man.
and she has a beautiful perfect
of which she lets me
hold in my rough hands.
Her heart is warm to the touch
never cold, for inside of it
it's full of fire, a fervor for life
I see burning bright, for her heart
is made of the most pristine glass
I see through it clearly
to the flickering flames within
that dance and dance
always before my eyes.
Yet I am flawed, and my
seeing leaves me sometimes blind
at the warmth and wonder of
her heart I hold in my hands.
I wish her heart to never break
nor the one to be the cause of
I hold it delicately lest to crush it,
yet not too firmly for it to slip
from my hands
I hold it with a willful assurance of self
as I marvel at the magical
glow that pervades from
Her glass heart is stronger than it
seems, more than she even knows.
Tougher than any Titans mighty
blows could wrought asunder.
Her glass heart's unwavering
mesmerizes my eyes, for it is true,
so very true straight to
and beckons for me to hold it
for all the rest of my days.
by Philip Wardlow , August 31st, 2022
Which do you prefer to be? The Adored or the Smitten? Why, as the Adored must come all the rewards, Eyes upon you, an audience numbering from one to one million. Hell even the right one can pour it on thicker in one mere moment than a million. How can you lose. How can you not see all the pleasure that brings? As the Adored are you ever bored? The Smitten have always outnumbered the Adored. They keep coming and coming and coming. Literally they may be coming. But in all seriousness, let's just hope they don't knock upon your door as they can get quite obsessive I have heard. Gift upon gift, upon gift, just to catch a peek perhaps to see, if what they they sent fits. It does, Oh , it's divine! Oh, by the way I also like the white one. But the Smitten, oh the Smitten, they have their dreams manifested in flesh, and a smile, and words that are just for them. Oh, the attention....it's everything. To be seen, to know you affect their life in that one small moment To possess the power to push it up or down. They are allowed to live within the life of the Adored, sitting at the edge of them, just a hair's width away from their every movement. Keep those compliments coming though, never wary for the Adored do get bored as do the Smitten. It's a transaction, a give and take. A take and give. Did you think you were Special? You the Adored, do you think you are truly treasured? You the Smitten are you truly charmed? Do you think you see them as they truly are? If in this life we flow from Give and Take what is ever truly real, what is ever truly fake if all our dealings are ever based upon the transaction? by Philip Wardlow, August 31st 2022
If I didn't have her in my life I would be less than My days would be dim, and my smile would be less inclined. I would know loneliness, I would know isolation and I would cry the fool every night of my life if I didn't have this woman to hold on to when all the world swung from wrong to right and back again. She's a sweet one, my woman, she's a handful to, but she's grabbed a handful of my heart will all the strength she has in her, and I don't feel her ever wanting to let go anytime soon. If I didn't have her in my life, I would ask the Universe why But I don't have to ask that question. Because she's right here, right now, in my arms. By Philip Wardlow Aug 22nd 2022
As she walked down the hall, every up and down turn of her hips mesmerized me more than a snake charmers dance with a cobra…
She was a petulant child trapped in a woman’s body with the insatiable appetite of a sexual succubus,
She confessed her desires, let me have all of her, then used me up, cast me aside, and then knocked on my door and asked for it again and I obliged her with a smile and let her in.
I would have come and danced with her in the rain but sometimes I liked to watch from afar and get lost in the beauty exploding from her smile.
Neither one of her two sides were her but both together made her who she was.
Her curves were beautiful, from hip to lip, from breasts to almond eyes, She took delight in letting me help her with all her secret sins that her mind meandered to.
Even the want of death is life because its a feeling. Hold on to life through that feeling and claw your way out of your loose soiled grave dear girl.
When ever she bent over or reached up for something upon a shelf, did she know how absolutely enticing her body looked when she did it? I’m thinking she did…
Violence never solved anything but it sure did look sexy on her in that moment in bed…
When she leaned her face first against the wall wearing that silk dress knowing I knew she was not wearing anything beneath, the invitation was too much to bear.
She was a magnet to me the first time I laid eyes upon her and she has been every day since.
by Philip Wardlow June 1st, 2022
Ah melancholy you, melancholy me. Twins of pains throughout our separate travels in lands and time blown away by great distances and choices right or wrongly made. You clutch dearly to your past like a child does a doll all tattered and torn since received from her inception from the womb that bore here into this world. Myself in that journey I took. and of which I am still on, I fumble in my pockets, fiddling with the loose change of memories I have always kept close and collected throughout time. Both predilections in the way we cope in our own entanglements are either a solace, a penance, a nuisance, or constant curse. Why not us both seek a new habit? You throw down your doll I shall let my change fall through my fingers as I grab your hands tight in mine and continue our travels together. by Philip Wardlow March 29th, 2022
To and fro we go in life and all its pains collected along the way. In the beginning, a Tango, feet sliding down the floor, full of exuberant steps of youth with a crazy devil may care. Never tiring, head up, steps sure even if we fuck up with every other step made. We are in motion, forward or back ,we are in motion and that is everything to the youthful whether in body or the heart it is everything. By Philip Wardlow March 21, 2022
She loves me without question.
Adores me in the fullest.
Leaves me wondering what she sees in little old me.
This sweet, wonderfully funny, bombastically beauty of a woman with her chameleon like gorgeous sexy, flourishing soul that beguiles me from her red hair to her dainty toes, from an arc of an eyebrow to the sway of her luscious hips in play, she always seems to get her way with every delicious day I find myself with her.
I have the clover, the horseshoe, the rabbit’s foot, and shooting star all wrapped up in her.
She’s my lucky charm I hold tight to, that magic that I delight to.
She is my wife, my perfect heart.
Forever my Valentine.
By Philip Wardlow Feb 14th 2022
If I were to suddenly evanesce, to flee, to disappear, to run fast and headlong into the bright nothingness of the night, what ruin would find my absence? Would their be sick wailing siren calls of the once was reaching my soul's ears through the nothingness of me? I hope not. Not Wailing over me.... a tear or two will do, followed quickly with a laugh. But I do not wish to know the old world anymore after I am gone. Why dry up and go, if to only to still receive drops of the once-was in a teacup, to simply drink bitterly of. Remember me or don't, for I will not care as I lie afloat amongst the stars, dreaming of new things, new worlds, new excursions to catapult a frayed mind to healing, to repair a ripped soul torn asunder. Cry and smile in the same instant is all I ask of you if you do remember, for I liked to be missed in both respects. So I guess I do care a little at that. I believe in everything and nothing in this Universe and I would miss both aspects were I to finally fall into the abyss of what-not and possibly nothings. I enjoy the Everything of people healing of the cuts they give themselves and get, and its wondrously satisfying to partake in living in that magical epiphany of them I do not enjoy the Nothing, in the sense that they will continually scratch the scabs to bleeding every so often and there is no mop big enough, nor pail of water full enough to ever fully clean it all up. I am tired of slipping in their blood. The Everything of them is wonderful buy sometimes the Nothing of them becomes all too much. By Philip Wardlow Dec, 2021
There is no greater story than us…
To meet during the chaos of our lives as the cruel planet revolved endlessly around.
The Universe said, “Here, take a look at this, isn’t it all you have ever wished for?”
“Yes, yes it is,” I replied inside, “she’s the type of girl I could love.”
From the come fuck-me eyes, to that open sweet smile, to those hips which told a future tale of open thighs letting me inside, from her warm heart to her internal heat.
When the Universe speaks, you better listen hard, for she may only whisper but once.
I didn’t blink, I didn’t turn away. I smiled back.
I saw her that night, fully. Her and I, laid out together for the next years of our lifetime and perhaps well beyond if the myths be true.
She was the one, she is the one.
From her eyes, to her smile, to her hips and well beyond.
By Philip Wardlow Aug 26th, 2021
They say parents shouldn’t outlive their kids, but should an older brother outlive their younger?
Much like a parent, the older brother directs, and protects the course of the younger.
Unlike parents, the older brother can also be a partner, a fellow perpetrator of many a fun misdeed gone awry. That is where bonds lie deepest, where intimate secrets are kept and held between a kin closer than that of the mother or father.
Sharing of sins, and the punishment of those sins, sharing in the joys and adventures that is youth in its whole.
You share a core with that little brother that none may know. It’s unspoken but known to the bone between you two.
To the Bone.
It’s honored, it’s delicate. It’s something that always dwells.
So when you see your little brother, dismal and seemingly damned, fallen and fragile, raging against an unknown foe and miles from the place in him from where he was once was, you know.
Where in the core that you share, now only dwells despair, you weep, and you weep, and you weep in the silence where no sees, because a man doesn’t cry, they simply don’t.
You know you won’t cry as he lies in a casket, all dressed and prettied up. You know you won’t cry when other’s speak of him in passing or come up to you with a hug, and “I am sorry for your loss”
You know you won’t cry simply because you have already cried so much as bit by bit of your little brother was pulled from you, excised with a sharp knife, and put into a blender and pureed to mush.
By Philip Wardlow June 2021