The end of the disintegration
not just missing the companionship
but the swelling of seas and the thought
of ships colliding.
I don't miss you nearly as much
...as I miss your touch.
I miss your inner thighs,
your loud moans
and cries -
of pleasure.
As I stroked you
up and down,
and swirled my tongue
kissing you in hidden places.
My legs up high,
your heart,
pulsing.
your face
between my legs,
me convulsing.
As the slow flicker
of your tongue across
the top of me,
makes me swell
like the rageous of seas.
I swear I won't
hold it against you,
just you against me,
and when the fun is over -
I won't resist to let you free.
Just let me know in this,
this feeling of reminisce...
If I'm alone in it.
That you miss the clashing of
our bodies and the way
our bodies meld.
and I'm not the only one in Texas
who wouldn't mind being held.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
Somebody mix in some yellow
color me something new.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
If monogamy is it’s own form of sickness
If those in ‘love’ are those in illness
If those moving on are those in stillness
If the calm before the storm is really
what you should prepare for
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
I want to sweep you away;
keep you swimming in my sea.
Never to drown you,
but to set you free.
Saltwater lips
have an awful lot to say
If you’re lucky
to have the privilege
of being swept away.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
I wish like hell I were a Jackie
but I'm more ****** up
than you know.
That's why I'll never be a Jackie
and I'll always be Marilyn Monroe.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I was raised on grain alcohol
and prayer. And if that's
not a powerful combination,
I don't know what is.
I blow up volcanoes daily,
So, you really shouldn't
of come as a surprise.
I realize I can't play
cards, or board games well.
But I'm the best liar
you ever saw. I also
know well enough to know
these words are inert -
they don't mean a thing.
Like this hand on my
thigh, what's the use?
But the hand, like the eye,
has it's purpose.
So, who am I
to interrupt it's job?
A mouths job, on the
other hand, is never done.
From the wine it sips,
to the licking of lips.
It's the only anchor
keeping me from your seas.
But alas, I have retired
my spectacles. My bleak eyes
have grown old. So,
I keep them closed these days,
pretending it's you I hold.
For blind, or for worse...
the better to dream
of you, my dear.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
Ah, what a tangled web we weave
lives can't be written -
as ****** up as these.
Another page written,
one more floor swept.
As waters getting frozen,
where ice will be kept.
I can't sleep like a jezebel
but I've still got a need.
Lives can't be written -
as ****** up as these.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
Your words ring like a shotgun blast in my ears.
Echoing and piercing just the same.
The honesty of them penetrating and cold,
taking me down faster than a speeding bullet.
You'd think it dramatic of me, foolish even,
to liken a statement to that of a ****** wound.
Wouldn't you?
But if you'd stood with your feet on that same floor,
the same kitchen floor he'd had you naked, bent over on before.
Maybe then you too wouldn't stand quite as tall,
as he gave you excuses that he was "joking" and that "was all".
Maybe you'd crumble.
Maybe you'd fake your strength like me.
Maybe you'd be smarter and flee.
Regardless of your physical reaction -
I can bet one thing would ring true...
That when it comes to someone who "loves" you?
This isn't something they do.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
pulsating and deep
dripping sweat,
and nothing but heat.
hips pointed high,
and eyes to the sky.
In a rocking motion,
thigh against thigh.
while you just lay there,
with your eyes open wide
... never knowing,
you're tearing from inside.
Until you're moving,
moving all about.
And you're bleeding,
so you shout!
And friends come running,
while the boy once full of motion -
just continues lying there.
With no concern at all,
except for himself,
and his hair.
Soon the hours start to pass,
the catheters, the doctors, the glass.
The blood flows, but the heart just stops.
Maybe from the morphine drip,
maybe from the tear,
maybe from the Mother,
whose now standing there.
The one who will stroke your filthy palm,
the one who you'll tell:
you raised a little girl, ma,
who can't choose men real well.
But if luck still exsists,
she'll hold you without a care.
And she'll help to mend the tear
that left you lying there.
Eventually you'll drift to sleep,
maybe out of weakness,
maybe after a good weep.
The suture will come out,
and the blood will cease.
But you, sweet darling,
will awake nowhere near peace.
Know you can clean up the mess, girl,
and you can hide that scar.
But the truth is, it's there,
wherever you are.
And he's not alone.
There's plenty of him.
But maybe next time sweet girl,
you won't just seek a lover,
but a friend.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
You are the dab of butter melting
in my morning grits. The incessant flicker
from the candles glowing in my room.
You’re in that glass, the golden dancer
of bubbles tingling my nose and mouth.
As I approach that stop sign,
you’ll be that blinding bus,
at each street corner,
stealing my time even years after graduation.
Remembering as I do, you.
The highlighter that lit up my life.
So bold, and so brilliant.
Forget the other paragraphs,
yours were the only words that mattered.
It wasn’t until early on a Tuesday
the daily shift to morning from night.
Allowing a bright sun to greet us
as the moon planned its escape.
There you were, a stranger in my bed
Like a yolk surprise, cracked before my eyes,
I finally saw your true colors
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC