French bath! Twenty two year old mind cologne slut! My friend speaks of concubines in yellow autumn slavery like my soul wants to copulate against female hosiery. A woman had her period, what’s it doing in my pocket? Warm October moons circulate preliminary madness with a catwalk kind of patience. Terrestrial sisterhood and their cemetery leaf appendages stroke our hearts with a sweep like bone-silk companions speak dark history.

© Matthew Goff

#poetry   #poet   #poems   #poetic  

Love is not giving yourself away piece by shattered piece
to convince him to feel about you what you feel for him
it is not a million misused chances for the stubborn hope that the pretty words you write will make him want to stay
it is not allowing him to treat your body like a hotel, to come and go in his own pleasure
because he knows better than to think there will come a day where you may have changed the locks
love is not an inexhaustible cycle of sleepless nights
spent wondering what variant of himself he may show you tomorrow
if he shows you one at all
love is not stripping yourself of all the armor you put on to shield away all of his demons
his lips may taste like honey but baby they burnt your skin
and he is already painting her the pictures you thought were only meant for you

#love   #heartbreak   #pain   #girls   #poetic  

she just saw something,
and she said; "that's so poetic."

Tuesday January 31, 2017
Khadijah A Wahab
Jan 29

telephone wires are sizzling
celestial water coloring stares
like a snowflake melting without
admiring her own poetic words
because silver armor is piercing
through glass throats that
scarlet rivers are dimly glorifying smiles
arousing lip biting & rough play
against the wall


i'm biting my lip again

The marriage of pen to paper gives birth to poetic imagery.
So full of life that its authentic nature can be felt every time you read.
My heart nurtured in its soil so deep that my mind thinks poetically. Aligned with the body and soul, I become poetically whole.

Temporal Fugue
Temporal Fugue
Sep 14, 2016

It was a place, I used to hang my art
now a poetic graveyard, devoid of better parts

Friends, collaborators, and people that I knew
all that's left are reminders,  a place, I was passing through

Hours, days, and months, spent typing like a fool
architecting prose and rhyme, utilizing every tool

Crafting and collecting, arranging words sublime
the site, now covered, drown, in vitriolic slime

Becoming witness too, such complete technological idiocy
lack of competent management, absence, of rote security

Trolls by any name, of many names they used
all of them may have been only one, ultimately abused

Rest in peace, and know the torch, not fallen free
caught by hands, more poetic, than mine will ever be

to close Dec this year, you can only login to download your work.
#sad   #shame   #poetic   #troll   #poet-freak  

I am the wind when the tide is high
And the clouds hang like broken picture frames in the sky,
Holding on for a moment of glory
While the poet’s haunting words write me life’s little story.

I am the sun when the world has no shine,
A gleam lost within the precious folds of time.
My manner of pride surpassing
What so long ago became everlasting,
For the days have become nothing more than an actor’s last scene.

I am thunder rippling in the dark
As the raindrops wound the already fragile hearts.
Sorrow falling upon the world like a blanket,
Wondering how much longer our broken souls can take it.

I am lost when the storm shatters the world,
Breaking the glass as the space between the lines unfurl.
And wandering like no man wanders before,
Hanging from the busted seam brought by greed, hunger, and war,
Never allowing their dreams to wash upon a dusty shore.

I am lightning, vibrant and ready to be a guide in the night,
Ready to end the darkness with a future promising and bright.
I am lightning, leading them through the storm
And abolishing the suffering that our hearts and our souls transformed.
I am lightning amongst thunder, ironically quiet and frightened,
Yet, they forget that their darkness too deserves to be lightened.

Written in the beginning of September and my third year of high school, I was inspired to write this after viewing an assignment prompt in my A.P. English Literature class. Deciding to compare that of my mind, soul, and body to an element, I chose lightning. To have the characteristics of lighting, I feel as if one must be vibrant against a black sky and bursting with passion as lighting does electricity. All of us are lighting one way or another. No matter the way one chooses to express their inner lighting, just remember that the small bit of electricity is there and it is alive.

The evening explodes inside their arms
Paul and Sara met dynamite smiling
Fending off parent’s wishes
With soft smile wave kisses

© Matthew Goff

#poetry   #poet   #poems   #poetic  

I’m so happy” she said, “I finally found the love of my life.” She hugged him tightly not wanting to let him go; but he hugged her tightly to him, not having the heart to tell her that he was only a figment of her imagination. He was the true love that never was.

Flash Fiction for creative writing class

She’s with friends. He’s with friends. She saw him. He saw her. He waved. She blushed. He talked to his friends. She giggled with her friends. He approached. She rebuffed. He asked. She accepted. He bought Starbucks for two. She found seats for two. He said, she said, he said, she said. They left. They entered. He got the drinks. She found them seats. They drank. They talked. They drank. He asked. She accepted. They danced. He kissed. She kissed. They left. They did. She woke, midnight. She left, no note. He slept.

Early morning. He called. No answer. Hung up. Called again. Got voicemail. He cried. He talked. He cried. He worried. He wondered. He stressed. He cried. He hung up. He left. He knocked. No answer. He broke in. She’s not there. He left. He worried. He cried.

Afternoon. She’s got a box. Runs home. Noticed broken door. Calls police. Police arrive. She explains. They talk. Got security. Locks door. Opens box. She tested. She’s positive. She cries. She’s poor. She’s alone. Phone rings. She wipes tears. Looks at phone. Ends call. Tosses phone. Phone rings. Heart’s broke. Can’t talk. Keeps secret. She sleeps.

Next day. He calls. She’s strong. She answers. He talks. He’s relieved. He questions. She breathes. Don’t answer. She asked. They hang up. They meet. She asked. He’s concerned. She cries. He wipes tears. She cries. He comforts. He asked. She answered. He’s shocked. He’s poor. She’s poor. He left. She cried.

He planned. He mapped. He wrote. He stole. He vanished.

Years passed. She parented alone. She met. New love. He knew. He asked. She accepted. She wed, reproduced (again), parented (again). They lived. He wondered. She told. He comforted. She wept. Baby cries. Child cries. She comforts. They sleep. She’s awake. Phone rings. She jumps. It’s him…

Weeks passed. Tomb Stones. She’s dead. Old lover’s dead. Left note. “She’s mine.

A flash fiction I wrote for creative writing and decided to post it on here.
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