Warm bodies
Pressed up against
Cold hands
Cool summer nights
With your back against the window
The street lights can see you as well as I can
We are not in love
But lust will do
On a cool summer night
With your warm body
Heating my cold hands
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
Too often
I find myself
Singing your song
And forgetting
The lyrics
To mine
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
I suffocated in the lords prayer
I drowned in preachers word
I asked help of our heavenly father
My voice was never heard
God Loves All His Children
I screamed within my whispered pleas
Under thin sheets in the night
Tears would stain my pillow
Yet there was not an angel left in sight
God Loves All His Children
Filled with self loathing I prayed to god
But he would never listen
I asked the preacher if god loved me
he said "God Loves All His Children!"
God Loves All His Children
On that night I sat alone
Feeling unloved and afraid
I then realized what was wrong
But this time I didn't pray
I Am No Child Of God
I don't need a god to love me
For loving yourself is from within
Remind yourself to be happy
Because it is not a sin
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
I am so alone.
Like your humble hands, untouched.
I wish you were mine.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
She is an artist.
Her canvas is reality and her paintbrush is her words.
The possibilities are endless, her life is her creation.
She is everything, everywhere, constantly.
The better version of everyone, including herself.
Eager to impress, she creates art with her ability to believe and fabricate.
From nothing she can become anyone she chooses.
She draws herself onto places,
engraves her name into books and songs,
paints her face in other people’s memories,
cuts her name into other people’s tongues.
She is an artist and her art is truly unbelievable.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:22 AM UTC
She doesn't know you but she could tell you your favorite song because she says it reminds her of the backs of your hands, younger than how they would seem and are much wiser than her. You've never spoke but your voice is her favorite song. Continuously playing in the back of her mind like a broken record you don’t want to turn off. She too is a broken record of your name, yet she cannot remember what it is. Like its resting on the tip of her lips, I imagine her, resting on the edge of yours. She tries to write poems, about how you make her feel weak at the knees. Frustrated, she tells me that she can’t write your perfection. It is endless and effortless and compares to nothing, after this she often contradicts herself by comparing you to the brightest stars and the vastness of space. He is all of me, she says. She knows you better in her dreams than she knows her own mother who doesn't know of the love she has given. She knows you’ll love her because she’s the sort of person who steps on every crack and reads obscure books with strange names. You’ll love her because she’s pretty and ambitious and astute and charming. She is endless and effortless and compares to nothing, you will often contradict this by comparing her to the brightest stars and the vastness of space. She will be all of you. She will rest on the edge of your lips and you will love her as she does you. As I love her.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC