Take out my heart
and fill the hole
with a sweet ****
take several bites
and stay through the night.
Take off my lips
and put them on your hips-
steal my finger prints
and get me in to trouble.
Pull out my teeth
and make a bite-mark necklace-
pull out my tongue
and make a broach
pinned over your left ******
Remove my hands
and use them as wash rags
as you bathe in the tub-
take my body
and use it as a towel to dry yourself off.
Take my soul
and use it as a blanket to keep warm
as we drift off to sleep.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
I am a car parked in the back alley, ready for a quick get-away.
I am an emergency exit; unlocked and with no alarm.
I am a trap door.
I am a secret safe hidden behind your favorite picture.
I am the key to those handcuffs, hidden in a secret pouch with-in your clothing.
I am the button hidden beneath the counter at banks.
I am the secret compartment in the drawer of your desk.
I am a secret under ground passage way.
I am the ace up your sleeve.
I am a dreamer that suffers from aspirations
of being the dream
that you have
which makes you smile in your sleep.
Sick with delusions, hoping that one day
I might get to be your wings.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Lover's thoughts
left adrift.
Silence rings
with no sharp stings.
Lover's limbs
tangled and weaved.
No new thoughts conceived
only joy; believed.
Lover's heads
tucked away.
Sleep 'til day,
wish to stay.
Lover's day
lead astray
by memories
and mystery.
Lover's voice
on the other end
a rush of joy
and love again.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
(In the now, once again.)
Baby, I'm growing wings.
And if what you say is true,
you might just want
to do something around the same...
at least build a plane.
I don't want empty promises
or false hopes to hang onto...
I create those enough in my dreams
while plotting my made-up schemes...
You asked
If I can do that with you...
I can only think of strong answers
that are not ANYTHING but true.
Don't act like you're the one waiting
...I feel like my heart is palpating
when I think of you and the dreams
I wish were true.
Can't we please just rewind...
I now know your mistakes
and mine.
Just don't promise that we can start again
unless you're serious, this time
about letting me in.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 12:11 AM UTC
You've changed something inside of me,
it came about as a swelling tide of intangibles
peeking just over the horizon.
A silence of the mind
vainly bracing for the impact.
The under current,
the rip tide,
will surely pull me under.
I just go,
I let it carry me
to where I need to be.
I just go,
let it wash away my sins
to be left
at the bottom of the sea.
I just go,
I give in to the everything
that I cannot see.
and I'm swept away
to another world...
hopefully you'll catch up with me.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
I will write to you
as much bad poetry as I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.
I will write
to myself
as much bad poetry as I can
to make myself smile
and still feel like a man.
I will write to you
more bad poetry
and deliver it with a kiss-
as many kisses on you that I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.
For my man-hood
is not measured by the inch,
or by hair to skin ratio,
or by word choice,
or by other's admission.
My man-hood just simply is,
as am I,
and I will write bad poetry every single day
up to the very hour
that I die.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC
(not in sorrow, just in the now.)
Here I am
just broke;
spending my last amount of change
on coffee and cigarettes
in hopes of creating something
out of the nothing that I own
that will take me up
like an angel
to the life that I dream about
but don't even remember anymore
because sleep is a memory
three days distant.
I've wasted my time
on thinking of how else to waste my time
in even more hopes that the time
will bring more creation
of the anything
that I dream of
coming from anywhere.
I create dust from my skin
watching it flake off
and collect on my books
that are there to inspire
but as of late,
do nothing but taunt.
The dreams,-they haunt
all of them just memories
of love poems
inspired by my own pining
fueling that insatiable lining
in my heart
that soaks up my emotions
like a tape worm
only for the left overs;
the waste -
to dribble off of my bottom lip
and and land on a paper
who's destiny is
a crumpled death
with a burial in the trash can.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
Go!
Find me a word.
A mono-syllabic word.
A word that is as independent
as a lone tree in a field,
the only shade around.
A word only modest,
never narcissistic,
that cannot bring pride
to the reader or writer
(as the word has the only right to the pride.)
A word that is self-specific
that cannot be mis-read
or mis-construed.
A word needing no explanation.
A word that is not an object;
neither a noun or a verb,
but always the subject.
A word so strong ,
yet always softly spoken.
A word that may float forever
when muttered aloud
that brings courage and inspiration
while you keep your feet on the ground.
When it's found,
I'd like to be that word.
Your word,
my word,
the world's word
with all of it's traits,
and known by nothing else.
That word will be me
and I will be that word,
and when I die
it should be the only word
written above my grave.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 1:44 PM UTC
A hero
in his own consciousness
for the world that exists
only in his reveries.
A warrior
so vigilant and chivalrous
in the village
behind his eye lids.
A king
so kind yet mildly imperious
ruling all
inside his land of dreams.
A drowning member
of the proletariat class
humoring all
in the world he walks.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
The poems come out of your eyes
and not your mouth,
as you write sweet lines to me
across the room;
our eyes lock
and you tell me
you are longing to know
what my voice sounds like.
what my hand may be like
locked in yours
and what my skin may feel like
under your finger tips.
As your poetry is yelling at me
from across the room
I wonder what your finger tips may taste like,
the chewed off nails
and the salty-sweet skin.
I wonder what your hair would feel like
if I ran my fingers through.
What the muscles on your neck and shoulders would feel like
being rubbed and massaged
with in the palms of my hands.
I wonder what your neck would taste like
if I were to gently kiss and lightly lap it.
Your poetry
comes out of your eyes
as you look at me
from across the room.
and then I see you pull out your notebook,
with scribbles and gibberish galore
as you write with quick
and tightly flexed arms
and I wonder
what your eyes might have to say
to the paper beneath your pen.
The words you write
for only your paper to see-
it should be shared
and I implore you:
will you share it with me?
And I sit and wonder
if I am understanding your language
or am I just a foreigner
to the country of your head?
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 3:26 PM UTC