PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
Apr 22, 2010

you are a:

but, w

i hope
you might be a


Oct 22, 2012      Oct 23, 2012

I want you to make me feel naked everywhere

saying things that make necks hot, face hot

don't have to be so sexual, don't have to touch

Want to? Do so, though, don't be so mechanical

swim on, flow on, spill on, no pushing

the things said should tear open, pop seams

wonder what's inside,  beating

running, ebbing, draining, no inspecting, no prodding

a thorough investigation with  eyes, words

make the most difference, words dig the farthest

fill the fastest, reach to ends that previously had

no end

the end

(c) Brooke Otto
Nov 18, 2014

I love him
I love her

I'm sorry
I used the wrong words
To describe you

I don't love him
I don't love her
I don't love them

I love you.

a pronoun can be so meaningful to me
Martin Celiz
Martin Celiz
Oct 30, 2014      Oct 31, 2014

you see, I use the word 'she'
very endearingly
most people don't understand how
a pronoun can be so meaningful to me
but they don't see
how 'she' is the girl who was,
who is, and who will be

you see, this pronoun is more than meets the eye
it's every girl I've met and loved
it's every pair of lips I've kissed and will kiss
every heart I've broken, and will break
and every girl who did, who does, and who will mean more than her word

perhaps forever is shorter than it seems
and we live many forevers
but a true forever
is never anything but a dream

Iv'e lived a few forevers with 'she'
and it's clear to me
that maybe forever isn't what it is destined to be
but then again
forever is more than a measurement of time
it's like an album of old photos
a few memorable moments frozen in time
I look at these pictures and see who she was
and what made her special to me
and I look at these pictures
in hope of seeing who 'she' will be

I refer to her as 'she'
as proof that she completes me
this girl might not be forever
however, 'she' will be
another face to fill the space
'she' will eternally be the fingers
that perfectly fit in mine

you see, I use the word 'she'
very endearingly

god, love is stupid
Mar 1, 2013

Copulation of the minds...

as word play
leads innuendos to fornicate
upon the poets tongue...

his fingers give voice to wanton
carnal desires

laying the reader bare
to writhe
helplessly beneath his hands

with ink stained kisses
he forces
words into their mouths

a breathless sigh
resonating his ache to be heard

as he stands naked before them
offering himself
to their voyeuristic gaze

before taking them upon the sheets
in punctuated passionate

leading them toward the climax

they so

cried out for...

Jesus I'm Good.


Just teasing
Jun 13, 2014

She once told me
she was terribly afraid of
the 889 blades of grass
in the park down her street,
of the 889 worn books
in her local library
of the 889 gum-covered steps
to her bus stops
of the 889 looks
she must make over her shoulder
of the 1 778 pairs of greedy eyes
stealing looks away from me.

I missed her when she sent me pictures
because I couldn't bear to look
at empty frames of empty eyes
(red dows no match red
unless it is the scarlet of blood on broken glass
after a year and two months of tranparency)
and also because the things that slipped into my phone
could only remind me of moments that could never be
and dreams
that would never come true.

I don't know what to say to her
without breaking her
(like the broken glass)
(the image still hasn't left my head)
but she inspires me toward metaphors
and the adromeda galaxy
isn't so far away anymore.

How can I stay by her side
when she triggers me to want to fall
but how can I ignore her call
when she is the only person I feel safe with
to coincide

I am afraid to tell her
(or myself)
how I feel
because in a cliche
I don't know how I feel myeslf
but dear, together, we are formidable
and apart --
I don't know about you,
but I catch myself on the dry spells --
we are fort minable

this song has been stuck in my hear
since it reminded me of you
and this could be another metaphor for something heartfelt
and not altogether original

But I want us to be
the figures in the painting
you said you saw us in
I want to be
that feminist duet
(even if I can't sing and you voice is that of the devil's)
I want to be
the cats in the picture
with the intertwined tails
or the flowers tangled up
on a vine
(I was going to send you that on
but I thought against it
because you were too beautiful to be compared
to a simple petrichor-scented bougainvillea)

So I will be
the 889 poetry books
you dog-ear and highlight
and secretly slightly plagiarize
and I will be
the 889 plants growing
in your backyard,
sparkling for you like replacement diamonds
after the rain
(and better yet I will be the forest
of 889 trees
looming not frighteningly but protectively
over you)
and I will be
the 889 strides
of golden brick road
to follow to your favorite coffee shop every day
and I will be
the 889 innocent peaks
at a delicate pinkie finger or a nose
(because a delicate rose such as you
cannot be seen all at once and truly appreciated)
and I will even be
the 1 778 pairs of eyes
stealing my own looks,
and hopefully you will not be afraid anymore.

I will split myself
6 228 parts
to make you feel comfortable
and if this is not a love poem
then it is an apology
and gratitude
and anger/resentment/not really/how could I resent you/you are everything

what I'm trying to say is,
we could go so many different ways,
and what's one more expression of love to you
after all you've been through.

Sep 12, 2013

Angel torches
filter sunlight          
                 across a vast                                  
                          horizon of sea foam                                    
              petticoats. Where                         
 topaz  touches         
                          through the              
             deepest dark      
                  blues - no body            
             can exist within            
      jewelled sapidity.    

Not an 'I' in sight :)
Gauntlet challenge completed, Mr Lipstadt ...

with you...
the bumblebee
would lose its
objectivity of re-,
and like every bumblebee
in man’s list
of talk there would only be
enough pollen to yawn about
and leave the rest politicised.

the pronoun to me
Jan 27

i've figured it out
i just need to start changing
the pronoun to me
i found the problem
hidden beneath a few lies
blocked out by the tea
used as replacement for sleep
i've figured it out
not every solutions
must begin with "we".

Aug 12, 2014      Aug 12, 2014

It looked like it had the weight and guilt
of a white man's history book,
and it hawked and scratched
at my soul like a raven.

It wept honey, sliding slipping around,
and bled sweet raspberry jam -
Chanting: "This is what I am,
O my girl, this is what I am."

It banged its chest
like a worker man's best bet
on a stallion for gold
as it just won't grow old.

"The sunsets are divine aren't they?
Do you think of me when you look up?
I think of you when I look down.
I'm always looking down."

It ended up with more,
more puncture wounds than Christ.
Marked raw white, purple and red.
All those pretty stars and boring scars.

They scatter the top of it's thigh,
healing them in vain in the sky,
stained dirty by the very essence of you
and the memory of your touch.

It kept jumping of the cliff
pretending the ground didn't exist.

I'm confused as well
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