Vanilla

My good friend Joan at http://pinkbonnetgirl.wordpress.com challenged me to the following task….

WHAT IS VANILLA TO YOU?

We casually talked about how fun would it be to see what is on your mind when VANILLA comes to mind.

I have always had this topic in mind and I have made a poem out of it called VANILLA. Please feel free to read about it as you wish.

Here are some GUIDELINES for this challenge:

Please use the hashtag #PoemUpChallenge when posting or promoting your poem/ writing to the challenge on Twitter.

Your poem/ writing should have the word VANILLA in it at least once.
Challenge as much poets/ writers that you know and link them to this post for the guidelines or add the guidelines to your post.

Once a writer has written he or she may or may not write another one… this depends on how inspired you get.

The “VANILLA POST” can be a poem or another form of writing. It’s the thought that counts!

So everyone let’s #poemup and write on!

So, without further ado, I threw caution to the wind and wrote the first poem I’ve written since I was nine, a good twenty years ago. You’ve been warned! Without further ado, here we go…

VANILLA

“You’re vanilla,” he said,
His smirk an ugly truth,
Revealing himself, the gentlemanly veneer
Stripped away.

His mask was gone and she knew,
Certainly and endlessly,
He was not as kind as he acted,
Without experience, or poise, or charm.

He craved indulgence and thrills to
Cement the myth of him.
To do what the filth he spent so long worshipping
Had told him was the way.

“You’re vanilla,” he said as a bullet
Meant to wound, to hide his own deviance,
For he had no pride and too much shame,
To be free and open like she.

She who would do whatever felt right,
For the right soul, one who accepted
That there was no shame in wanting
To pleasure and be pleased.

“You’re vanilla,” he said, cold shoulder exposed,
Lying in his own sweat, from a frolic now forgotten,
Within seconds of its close,
Pedestrian and empty.

She did not give him a fraction of her everything,
He was undeserving and ironic,
Craving pornographic thrills and pallid emotions,
A hole to bury himself in.

“You’re vanilla,” she thought, and slipped away,
To leave him dreaming of heartless sluts
And encounters that could never be
Because he would hate all involved, himself most of all.

He was afraid of loving, exposing, being
Raw and stripped while still in clothes.
Her body was not the weapon he wanted,
But an instrument to be played and conducted.

“You’re vanilla,” she mused, his a thankless heart
That could never play the right notes of
Symphonies played out on skin and soul,
Flesh, bones and senses entwined.

She had composed an opus a day with her body
For those willing to listen, but he was deaf
To the sound of honesty and beauty and would be
Left to play solo without her.

“You’re vanilla,”she knew, because taboo
Was not a medal, a badge of honour to wear
As smutty armour in lieu of the understanding
Of sharing natural carnal joys.

He had no bragging rights, no stories,
Save for a final fumble with an angel now
And forever beyond his reach,
Off into the night with a spark in her heart.

“You’re vanilla,” she whispered as she left him behind,
To bare everything to one who would appreciate
What it was to share so fully that bodies
And minds had no limits.

Beyond depravity and shame, where the blur
Of rich flavours and heady sensation was sweet,
And satisfying and wholesome and true and
Words like vanilla meant nothing.