My love is all tangled up in my desire
Twisted up like flaxen rope in barbed wire
When our hands touch, warm and innocently
The spur of desire wants your hands all over me
When I taste your mouth on my lips
That's when the bridle on my passion slips
When my mind takes control and my thoughts run away
I know I'm still in that place with nothing left to say
Does anyone know that the line between right and wrong is so thin
Does anyone know temptation quite like the one who's already given in
I threw open the door to the sky
And the ocean rushed in like oxygen to the flame
The crescent moon cut like crystal glass
Casting shards of starlight from a distant past
Drawing pin-pricks of blood from my hands and my feet
Sending rivers of rosé which got lost in the sea
I heard distant laughter from an empty shore
I cried tears of joy and then drowned in it all.
Not a doll of china.
Nor porcelain within.
A heart that beats relentlessly.
Without an ounce of sin.
Sound bits cry sorrow.
For too many lost tomorrows.
The tomorrows that could have maybe been.
With hands so warm.
Yesterday should be erased.
But in your presence was amazed.
Discovered for the virgin love.
An all improbable, even impossible dream.
A dream come true.
When face to face.
I met you.
Smiled for once.
This doll's visage, now truly blue.
As she sits and muses misery.
You and I were meant to be.
In real life and poetry.
You are all my lost tomorrows.
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
It was love that was the virgin..not me x
These young and new hands
Feel a forever weight of a ring.
They feel the roughness
Of a mans body.
Of clinging to his hand and
My hands, one moment squeezing
The living shit out of everything
Is now sweetly caressing
A newborn babe.
I feel my hands hold it
And so cautiously,
And that is how
My hands dealt with him
For his life.
When he was sick
I'd rub his tummy
Or hold him
Or hug him
And feel my hands clutch
The safety grip
In the car as I taught him to drive.
Feel my hands holding onto a
Red graduation cap.
My hands feel a new babe,
And my hands help out
To take care of her.
They would hold her
Until her father
And my son
Took her away into his.
And I feel her grow up
With every hug
And every pat on the knee.
And I'm so busy
Working with my hands
I don't notice them
Until I am failing to
Open a simple bottle for Advil.
I notice them.
And their veins
And their knuckles
And their soft old skin.
I feel their tiredness
And see their old spots.
So busy with anything else in this world,
I didn't realize I was
Ask me anything.
My soul is yours to inspect with your fingertip-tapping
On flat-screen cell-phone, iPhone, you phone and I'll say, ask me anything.
Ask me if I cry myself to sleep at night and I'll say maybe.
Ask me if I like that boy and I'll fake smile at you through computer screens
Hiding whatever true feelings I have left to cling to.
Ask me if I think I'm beautiful.
I will respond with the detailed analysis of everything you have ever convinced me is wrong with my body and my appearance. I will tell you that I need some thinspiration, that I've really got to hit the gym more than three times this week and I really shouldn't take sugar with my coffee.
Ask me if I'm friends with Sarah, or Michael, or Brittany,
I'll cringe as I type out forced words of admiration, knowing, they're together laughing curses at their phones reading whatever I have to say about this question.
Ask me if I fucked the quarterback of the football team at a party, saying you heard it from someone who heard it from everyone else and I'll respond a quiet “no,” fingers and arms shaking, knowing full well I've never been more involved with a boy than ballroom dancing in the eighth grade and that now I'm too afraid of letting anyone in, let alone into my body, after the hands of a family friend went a little too far and got a little too friendly.
Ask me if I have any friends. At this point, I'm not sure how to answer you. I thought I had a friend in you and all the rest but a rogue rumour wrecked it all and none of you are rushing to my side to help me back up from the fall. I thought at least I'd have a friend in myself, but it seems that I've lost faith and have found no reason to love who I have been molded to be.
Ask me to do the world a favour. Ask me to get lost. Ask me to cut my veins open and watch them bleed. Ask me if I like the taste of bleach. Ask me if I have a rope and chair handy. Ask me to die.
I’m sorry -
I won't be here to answer you.
Even if you do not experience these hateful words, you are contributing to an idea that having this account is normal and "cool" and this idea pressures young girls and boys into making these accounts where many are subjected to the cruelty of intrusive questions and accusations. No human should treat another human like this, even with questions on the internet or a comment typed out behind a computer screen. Think of Megan Meir, whose "friend" manipulated her mind during one of the most intense periods of hormone-hurricanes in her life. Think of Amanda Todd, whose name endured cruelty even after her soul passed on. Think of Rehteah Parsons, whose death proves that words can break hearts resulting in more damage than broken bones ever could.
Think of your own someday daughters and sons. Think of your siblings.
Think of yourself, and when you truly take a few minutes, or an hour, or a week to think on this problem I promise you, you will realize that you do not need to contribute to it.
Please end the cruelty now.
PS: My sister is no longer in school because of this. She is thirteen. On a daily basis she receives death threats, vulgar insults, questions about her (non-existent) sexual activity, and intrusive questions about her social relationships.
She responds to these, because as far as her thirteen year old mind has been convinced by her peers (and I can't blame her, the root of the problem goes much deeper than her ability to make decisions), she has to respond in order to have a high number of questions asked and to gain followers she must be interesting and to have friends she must have a high number of followers).
As a senior student and someone who has never really felt the need to conform to fit any social rules or barriers, I don't think this is okay either. None of it is. It's a vicious circle and someone needs to stand in the way so it doesn't go 'round again and take another life.
My temple is made of words
in the centre I do now stand
I wave my hands in gestures
and compose my dreams
Their is no strain to me
for it comes naturally
this gift is heaven sent
therefore I will sing it's praise
I dreamt of a beach of sand
and when I woke it was in my hand
my dreams are truly vivid
I hope that you understand
When I dream of ancient wars
I always come back with scars
I stride time like a child
a child in a sandpit of time
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
music enters my mind
words come out
spill on this paper
bleed onto my hands
work on your body,
work in the shop
that gotdame weight,
sorry i don't use Gods name
in my viens, you'll see my blue blood side.
Come deeper into my lungs,
you'll see my deep breathing sacs.
Dont go deeper, you'll see my brain
mine. Those words are mine,
and they will stay that way
until I decide when is best to tell you.
Tell you, feel you, I wont use you.
Don't fear the love given upon you.
to keep the beating,
MIA. What? you've never seen me in action?
or is it missing in action?
Do those mean the same thing?
What about Heaven and Hell,
Do those mean the same thing?
One can't exist without the other, so
I guess so.
I stand on my on guesses,
you can persuade me easily,
if you have hard evidence that means something.
Don't waste my time,
I'm on a schedule.
Interrupt and you'll be sorry.
But I invited you, remember?
I said to come swim in my veins,
that doesn't mean I'll let you out though.
Be careful, once your in there,
It's hard to come unattached to some
one big eyed, big sass, big assed
Opps, dont like my language?
To bad for you, I'm not sorry,
You must have just been overprotected
and under responded too.
Honey, I do what I want with your permission or not.
Don't do that, it makes me too hot.
like the world is ending.
Jump on my shoulders lets go for a ride.
AK-47, you know what that means?
It means, I got one and you don't,
It means don't dink around.
Love me or don't.
Don't string me like some puppet.
I'll rip through your mastery,
and show the world the fake you are.
and see that really,
your not as bad as me.
Here it all is, in your hands
You can burn it
Or treasure it.
You can read it like a poetry assignment
Or you can feel it like a first kiss.
But let it be said now
That anything you see here that you find beautiful
Is your reflection
Staring back at you, clear as day,
From a page.
It all feels like
such a long time ago.
Kissing in the middle
of a country road
in the middle of the night.
The smell of alcohol
on your breath,
as your hands fumbled
all over me.
Thinking that this was it.
We wouldn't see each other
for a long time.
I used to listen
for the sound of a dirt bike
in the middle of the night.
But I never heard it again
after you left.
I read eulogies from time to time
to pass the time, I find in some rejected newspaper.
The language is foreign, for I am
alive and in two hundred or so words I am to know,
who this person was and that
they were loved or respected or validated in two
dimensions plus words and a
picture, when not so long ago they were three
dimensions that filled voids in
other peoples lives, striving to make the world
around them a better place,
battled hard in a war, and fell its only victim.
Swallow the bitter pill,
there ain't no better place,
than where you are right
now, with words written
as plain as the pain on
your face, so listen and
I will try to take you to
a better place maybe I
will transport you to
a ephoric utopia but
that will take opiates,
for my words will just
make you dizzy, Gillespie,
get off that computer and
go to bed, and then you
will dream dreams of us
meeting instead, where I
will be humble and you
will be dapper unless you
are a girl then you will
be "a beautiful rendition of the Mona Lisa"
pray what is behind that
smile and how do your
whites stay so pearly and
your hair, so light and curly,
like the clouds over head,
with a background of blue
sky that holds that daystar,
and reflects off the water in
the duck pond and blinds
my eyes and makes the tear
oft fall, salty on my sleeve,
as I hold one up to wipe
a tear, I feel your hanky
brush my eye lash and I blush with unabashed charm,
but if we were manly men
walking under the trees,
along a pathway of asphalt,
walking sticks pressed into palms
of hands, not those topical trees,
along side us grass, dotted with Canada geese,
oh do watch your step dear
boy, or you might grease your
soul, which would be a helluva
a way to let this perfect day
slip away and take us from
this better place.
It matters not who I am with, for when I am with you, whom ever you are,
I am away from here, therefore found in a better place.