I feel like we're brushing fingers across
Two oceans because
You can't reach that far and
I can't make up for the distance
Some kind of
Meet in the middle arrangement but i feel like im
Than you're trying to.
So one sided that i can barely remember
Which side im on.
Can you help me reach you?
Or is it too late and you're too far
They say that humans are compassionate and loving creatures, with a wide variety of emotions. Yet they also say humans are the most feared and horrible creatures on this planet. And all of these things were yet said by humans. What most people don’t say or tend to notice is that humans are full of oxymorons, hypocrisys, and failure. That may sound negative but it isn’t. If humans weren’t flawed then we wouldn’t be humans right? I believe those two most common perceptions of humans come from the two most commonly perceived personality types present in humans. You have the super happy-go-lucky type who believes the world is perfect and pure and no one wants to hurt each other. And then you have the extremely hateful cynical type. The people who have been hurt and stepped on and abused and feel they have every right to hate the world. But I think these two extremes are quite unfair to the majority of the population that is in the middle grey area. The reality is that the world is a mystery and treats every human differently with different experiences, just as all humans are different from each other. It’s quite beautiful, that grey area. You never really know what’s going to happen in the middle and its exciting.
surrounding us: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
we’re beaming to a planet’s surface. now listen:
i know about inverse tachyon beams
i know about coded klingon screams
i know about going to warp factor eight
i know about redshirts' survival rate.
i’m beaming down with the main crew
to the surface of minerva II
we've got a malfunctioning interstellar transceiver which is distressing-- dysgraphing? dismantling…
…i don't know.
scotty said it was defective.
so we’re on this planet,
standing on one side of a thick forest packed with monster janeks,
starfleet says we need to fix this thing yesterday, and we’re in a panic—
and damn it, mccoy is a doctor, not a lumberjack,
and kirk says we should just burn through the middle with phasers,
and spock says we must preserve respect for all life forms no matter the situation.
now please remember kirk’s the captain.
that means he runs this show
but kirk always listens to spock,
we spend two days walking through the forest.
surrounding us: a billion trees
in a place where a strange disease is rare as feathers in a flock
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive.
halfway through this dark-lit trip
things go wrong (obviously)
and an alien with shellac for skin captures the captain.
said alien grabs a vine, ascends into the canopy of the trees,
and for one glorious moment
i believe kirk’s the dead guy in this episode, not me!
but spock, in his calm and logical vulcan voice,
orders us to exercise any necessary force to recover the captain.
translation: KILL EVERYTHING. JUST GET KIRK BACK.
we reach the janek village.
being a good redshirt, i rush in, phaser blasting, ready to complete the heroic rescue of our captain—
and get killed instantly.
as i was dying, i heard the sound of thousands of janeks dying beside me
saw spock help kirk off the ground
and the last words I heard were theirs:
“captain, are you in need of immediate medical attention?”
“nah, spock, i’m fine—”
“mr. scott. the captain is hurt. beam us aboard immediately.”
one’s arm over the other’s shoulders,
surrounding them: a billion stars
in a time when a trip to mars is like walking around the block
and captain kirk and mister spock are arguing
about the prime directive—
but the prime directive
was never the real objective.
you, my love, are the light of my life, and you - are ruining my writing. lately, when i sit down and try to write, all i can seem to come up with are grossly overused analogies and tired metaphors that have been recycled a thousand different times. all that flows from the end of my pen are flowers and stars and the creases that form in your forehead when you smile and how much i'd like to lose myself in the galaxies of your irises - and it's disgusting. this twilight-esque prose, this juvenile symbolism and puppy-love poetry that pours from me - is not me. i'm no Poe, no Plath, no Kerouac, but i like to think that i'm okay. however, recently the caliber of my writing has been reduced to nothing more than rainy-day romance and child's play. and god, everything rhymes. i feel like i'm sixteen again in the best way. it's because you've stayed, that you are changing everything i thought i knew about love. i catch myself absentmindedly drifting to visions of a shoebox apartment in a city somewhere and furniture shopping and even the B word (babies). that's so unlike me, that is so - amazing because nobody has ever been so serious about me and i think that maybe, baby, someday i'd like to be 80 with you - oh god. you - you are too many poems that all sound the same, but each time i read through them i somehow manage to find something i haven't read before. you are open doors and patient arms with a voice like a lullaby that resonates in the darkest corners of my mind. you are saving grace without condition and a love so deep i could go for a swim in it - and maybe that's why i'm drowning, because all i ever really learned how to do is doggy-paddle. but you are so patient. anyone else would have quit on me by now. the idea of forever has always terrified me, but the promises you make sound so real that i'm beginning to think maybe they are. baby, you, are eyes like soil and words made of rain drops, and every day we grow a little more. i adore you. i am so sorry that my meager words can't do you justice. my ineptitude is criminal, but i'm trying. and i think that i would rather be vomiting these clichés than return to the world of gray i lived in before i met you. i love you. i love you. i love you to the moon and back and every planet in between. you are the sweet to my tea and the leaves to my tree. and every song i've yet to hear but somehow i manage to follow along with. i wanna scream it from the top of a mountain or the middle of a grocery store, about this love that leaves me with butterflies in my belly and fireworks in my heart. baby, i've never been so happy to embrace mediocrity. my prose may be suffering, but my heart is soaring. writer's block has never been more welcome than when it bears your name. so wipe your feet at the door, take off your coat, and please, make yourself at home.
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hild why cryin'?'
I guess falling in love is the equivalent of sitting in the middle of the road with your eyes closed, listening to the sound of cars.
You hear them coming closer and closer, and you brace yourself for the impact, not knowing when it’ll finally hit.
And I guess that’s what makes it so terrifying.
I hate you
Yet I dream about you
And when I awaken in the middle of the night
I ache for you
And when the morning sun shines through the cracks of my window in the early day
Deep down inside me
I wish you had stayed
2013 © O'Brien Devin Brielle
5/6/00 3:49 PM
I am transcribing this mornings’ writings.
It is 11 a.m. I have been naked all day. So many windows to look through, both physically and in the mind.
I have been near silent the whole time I have been in this house. I find it so strangely familiar here. It fits; it all fits in the mysterious cosmic way I have yet to discover.
*I am a person who visits ‘his house when he is on trips. And here I find myself on a trip or two indeedy. The house, thought 1, I love his style.
It makes me think of what I want for myself. There is fantasy and reality to indulge in here.
Reality is the space and freedom. Space for all things special and ordinary. I miss space and order. He has all the thought provoking areas of interest of a real home. The colors are rich, deep blue, burgundy, and browns, all used in an artful mix of styles. Oddly pondering here because I would choose many of the same pieces myself. Every room has space for dancing, which I have done naked a few times here now.
Everyone else is watching big screen movies. I am in the other living room on a big brown leather couch; still naked, touching all of ‘his things with my body.
I awoke this morning to the sound of the modem. I swear it is the perfect alarm clock for me! You know I get excited every time I here the perfect connection.
My dreams were vivid awake and asleep because ‘he is on a trip and I am sleeping naked in the master bedroom. There is the possibility he could have come home at anytime. I had spent 6 hours already that night naked in his home without his knowledge. Everyone is used to me being naked when we come stay here. I don’t want to put clothes on here, in this house.
It is not the people around seeing me naked in the yard sunbathing, or running around the big house with big windows which have no coverings btw.
It is the space and atmosphere that draws out my facets. This space sparks my exhibitionist in a feisty way. * All the pussy massages for me to relax and enjoy, just being papered to highs. *
The white leather couch and a 60-inch screen for movies- others are sitting in the chairs and on the floor.
One joins me on the sofa. Everyone is watching a movie, so am I when my eyes are open. I am on the couch on my stomach, with a pillow under my hips and my head. My legs spread wide, there I am being touched inside and out constantly. I moan, open my eyes and see the many eyes on me and the ’s. I close my eyes and smile and say “watch the movie you guys geez”, giggle, wiggle and moan again. The surround sound covers some of my whimpers.
As soon as the movie was over I walked to the master bedroom and turned on the light. HIS clothes, files, and suitcases were still on the bed. WoW he really could come home. I wanted that bed!
-We- cleared the bed and I jumped in the middle and put ‘his pillow under my ass. I don’t know ‘him, but I love his style and I wanted to cum on his bed and pillows. The fact that I come here and stay naked all over his things excites me, and he has no idea. And yes, I came all over the master bed, we fucked madly! I know the others heard my bells and chains clinking at a feverish pace. I listened to the sounds ‘his bed made. I fully enjoyed his headboard, grabbing his oak poles, feeling each one up and down, as I was getting closer to coming. Ahhh my hand finds a broken bar, I think how it must have been broken by ‘him doing what I was at that moment. That moment I came.
My mind was so in this “space”, that after we were spent I jumped up and ran to the pool. Everyone else was still wake and followed me outside. Skinny-dipping after hours of pleasure is the best recovery! Wooo Hooo!
I was the only one naked – still, I didn’t mind and neither did anyone else. They were announcing to me when the pool jets came on, giggles, they wanted me sitting on them. A wind picked up and I went inside, everyone followed me in.
We all watched Eyes Wide Shut, and then everyone went to his or her separate rooms.
I took ‘his room, I love the big space, the many doors and windows all left open, so nice and free. I stood beside ‘his bed and slowly dropped my chains and bells beside his slippers on the floor. I sprawled about on his sheet and fell into a light sleep.
I was dreaming that there was a camera taking pictures of me, while I was replaying in my dream the real conversation I had with ‘him the night before. He was asleep on the phone, I called and he never fully woke up to give my message to his roommate. I listened to him breath, and I spoke quietly to him, softly and sweetly, he spoke back a few times and then I hung up. But in the dream I was having it was phone sex, and I was talking in my sleep, in ‘his bed. What a twist of cosmic ways. With all the dreams: of the snap shots and the discovery of me in his bed, nude, alone and moaning fuck me. In my dream I was saying it, and I know the other people in the other rooms could hear me speaking my mind in my sleep. The rooms are close by indeed.
Awoke by the modem with 5 hours of sleep, I was stiff bodied, yet excited to wake up in ‘his bed. It was 8:30 a.m. I rolled over and moaned loud enough to draw attention to myself, knowing it would work .
I kept my eyes closed and softly said how sore my ribs and back were. The hands of the night before returned to rub my body once again. After a few minutes of morning massage, I smiled, giggled and rolled off the bed and darted to the pool.
Naked morning sunshine, I love it, jump in the pool and by the time I got fully wet the coffee came to me. Everyone was eating breakfast poolside while I skinny-dipped my body into a limber state. After breakfast everyone jumped in the pool with me, but I was the only one naked. We all swam for 30 minutes or so. I spotted the lounge chair and decided to sunbathe Seconds after my body reclined, the hands and oil came to pamper me once again. I was spread out in full view of all in the pool, getting slicked up al over, with oil and such. It felt great inside and out, I didn’t care that everyone was watching me get my pussy satisfied. I was vividly aware of where I was, out in the open space and the freedom of space, as I thought my ass rose in the air and my body twitched repeatedly. I heard the voices in the pool, and felt the sun on me as I came hard, right there in front of everyone. Hell, I needed help getting up off that chair, and an oiled hand took mine, and led me to the master bedroom.
The master’s bed now has oil on the sheets and the headboard, and the wall. I left myself all over his things. He will know some of my essence whether he knows it or not, I will. Here I sit naked in his den loving every naked minute of it.
I am back from being oil girl. Being bent over people spreading glistening oil on nakedness, my ass got a lil bit to much sun! I go to the master bedroom again, everyone is still poolside. I try on things, because they are left out on the bed. You know how I always ask what a mans' favorite pair of pants are? Well there was 501’s in my size, I couldn’t resist sliding him on me, loving how they fit my ass. I went back outside and paraded around showing how good ‘his pants fit me. “Do you have underwear on?” I was asked, I laughed and said no. I got an odd look from the people. I danced off to the bedroom and put them back, knowing how he fit was enough.
Right now I am sitting outside writing and a camera is pointed right at my pussy. So I shall stand up for a few shots. I got up and stood on the table and spread for some close ups, lmao, ok enough sun, my tits are red.
After delivering a few drinks poolside, I return to ‘his bed, laying on my belly, thinking, pen in hand.
I hear the shower turn off and I close my legs, I feel the wet drops hit my back, as he sits on my legs. He is holding them together with his weight. I feel the oil hit my back, sliding down the crack of my ass.
The lower back massage becomes two bodies sliding against each other. At first his hands slide between my tightly pressed thighs. My hips grabbed and lightly lifted, raising my ass in the air, yet tightly holding my legs together.
A breath on my neck touched me at the same time he entered my pussy once again. My pen never left my hand. I was focused.
I go for a smoke and jump back into the pool, knowing its time for me to leave soon. As I enter the main room, in just panties, I pick up my lotion and start putting it on my arms. Hands from behind gently take the lotion and begin putting it on my sunburned back. I defiantly feel the fact that I have panties on as the hands reach my lower back and slowly pull them off……
The story is very telling that my mind is truly not on present, but on what is not there. By saying this I almost ruin the erotica of it..but the psychology of the the story is rich too..
I wrote that day and the next paragraph by paragraph, each hour or so.
Who else was present is everyone who always saw me naked and saw it as no big deal. I was a nudist, they knew it. Its all very true...
The forms of sustenance, manifold, teleologically varied,
The nourishment needed by Body & Mind,
Imbibed in parts equal and relative, or not:
Unbalanced we become.
One foot holding the unexpected weight intended
over two. Diseases thrown into unwelcoming & disused
arms, the visible tendons weak with neglect. Wraiths,
like us, aplomb judgements of avoidance too late.
The middle becomes the end and trails to nowhere become
accepted. Work hard, work hard and nowhere becomes
Somewhere, somewhere worth being, start and end.
The pulleys of creativity with ropes frayed. Dis-
proportionate, the strength of the ethereal becomes solid, manifest.
The dearth of nutriment, leading, pulling, dragging you away.
The condition of disuse invariably leads to collapse. A melt,
snow in the Spring, wanting that, the emanation of conscious light.
With what we identify fills the vessels that from far away appear to be
She laughs, her dark lips spread and in we flow, filling her mouth,
just like she wanted. Black ground opens and awash we are, around her teeth.
Grinding and stealing, using and thieving. We exist for her, for her
Such is the sound–
These hearts are a'breakin'.
Only I know that crink in my neck–
that sprainin' a'joints grinding 'gainst disks.
I know how the cold creeks do get in October,
sheets and slabs, it's wet in October.
Listen to those frost-ridden reams underfoot!
Cold conversing, I said, "A'hush off. . . Now, now. . . smirk'd, yea-sayin' open an ear–"
Listen to that shard, to them shimmerin' sheets of ice underfoot: Snap.
You'd think them finger-snappin's was some jazz! Jam! Jubilate! Just do it again.
I want an iced, ambient encore; chilled to the bone-core, I grab that glarin' a'glistenin' glass.
The median is near the middle, give that shard a shove, I want to hear it again–
That's my kick, my wake-me-not whistle borne of creekwater:
That single soundin' o'shatterin' of sharded sheets,
two halves of a once-whole gripped,
glistenin' a glass singin' as it snaps:
I, ice, do hiss!
Listen: it's in the hiss, man!
And my snaps sound ballistic
when I break, balletic, in two!
'Twas a hiss indeed.
that ice does as electricity:
O' it does cry when it cracks,
it does fizzle as it fragments,
it does spark as it splits,
it does bend light between bubbles,
it does melt in my midst,
things do get wet in October.
O' it was by the creek that I told her:
"Such is the sound of two hearts a'breakin'–
'Tis only ice underfoot."