Sherbert skies, and church bells at 6 am.
Your blushing, bruised collar is my alibi,
cause it's where I've been.
Hips move, lick and moan
You are everything I've ever known
Thunder rolls 'cross fields of grain
Into burning bones, you've etched your name
Your hips feel like home
Though I can't help but roam,
You've so much to explore,
leaves me gasping for more
Sitting together as we watched the storm roll by...
I didn't want to say goodbye.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Forget everything you've heard about ************
It is not pathetic. It is not ***** It does exist for women.
It is not replacing an absence of ****** fulfillment.
Concept: we all posses the power to be our own ****** fulfillment.
Yes, you posses magic that can send lighting across your trembling skin. Your hand needs no navigational assistance; it moves with the wholesome earth of your body, the rolls and valleys of flesh, all while following networks of crackling nerves and goosebumps.
Feel your heart beating in your chest!
Feel your ***** thrum with life and vitality,
Your digits are like brushes, learning the canvas they paint. The wet paint dripping down your leg is a sure sign of a masterpiece on the horizon.
The spread of the sky, like the spread of your legs, is vast, and not completely known. Your fingers are long skeleton keys, keen to unlocking your own passionate ****** and sweeping pleasure.
That majesty and mystery of what dwells in the valley of your thighs, the mouth of your womb, will draw many to the mountain silhouettes of your bent legs.
Of course, the keys that best fit will always swing from your keychain.
There is no shame in knowing the bounty of your own body,
the same way that no one blames volcanologists for
the study of hot, flowing earth.
We are privileged to explore our own unique topography, memorizing maps of our rises and falls, creating a seismic shift beneath our skin, and letting loose pent up pleasure and pressure and sensation.
It is our own divine action. We are gods of our own earthly bodies.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
The more I know you, the less I understand.
But it is all the best things that
we are resigned to never learn in their entirety.
We are drawn in by the mystery,
heading the ethereal call of misty isles
and faraway eyes.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
hey, you say
he smiles and you
light up
he throws his arm around you
and replies, hey, bud
you want to cry and trace his lips
and make him
mutter your name
while you have
your tongue in his mouth
you want to touch him,
trace the map of your heart
all over his skin
but he can't know
he won't know
if only he knew you'd be dead meat
with ****** carved on your skin
she grins at you
and loops her arm through yours
and shows you her bra
does this dress make me look fat
and you wish you could say
you're beautiful
and touch her back as you
slide the dress down her sides
but she chuckles and says
i think that boy is cute
why won't he ask me out
and you know
she can never know
she won't ever know
if you ever touch her
she'll push you away
yell, ew, a ****
you're oh so pretentious
you, such little poser
you've only ever been with guys
you don't know what it's like
to be with a lady
what a grand faker
you're so not special
shut the **** up
you're being ridiculous
don't you like ***
well you've never had it
find someone to put you in bed
I promise you'll like it
the best time you've ever had
now don't be a freak
here's something unheard
not in *** ed
and not at home
who sleeps with whom
is a business of their own
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
THEY walk / Just one / Alone on the cracked pavement / Toes dragging, head sagging / tripping over lines that aren’t there.
High tops / the likes of God himself /sanctified, glorified, / pearly white as the gates of heaven / Consumerism, cleverly disguised / as divine ascension, the righteous liberty of choice / the steering of your own destiny- / and yet / ... / those footprints in the dirt / seem only to last as long / as anyone cares to look.
THEY / THEIR / THEM / Words rarely respected / most often neglected / every conversation, a silent battle / for the right to exist as THEY see themselves / THEY are a complete deviance from / the suffocation of two / neither pink, nor blue. / THEIR body, our bodies / once beautiful in our youth and vigor / now condemned as destitute wastelands. / Reaped of any / dichotomized consumeristic value, / that the world instilled during our years of innocent persuasion. / We are dust now, society tells us / just ghosts of what the earth once bore; / our place is nonexistent in this world. / Little choice but the next, / a test with limited boxes to check. / Maybe they’ll listen when our cold, nighttime howls / are too loud to ignore. / Maybe one day, we’ll fill the ears with our voice / never to be quelled again. / But until then / existence becomes more a question than fact.
A red rover world; / it croons to us lovingly, / as does the sun coax the flowers to bloom / come out! the world says / come out! / our wayward sons / come out! / our wandering daughters / come out, oh battered children of the world / let us cradle your broken hearts! / let us see your tears! feel your anguish! / and maybe we will know you better for your suffering. / And so we came, and continue to come. / not all, but enough for the satisfaction of the status morale / Be different! the world challenges / And so THEY dare to live differently, / and by extension, dangerously. / We ascend, just like the logos told us we would- / only to be brutally thrown aside / because we’re all the wrong shoe size. / our punishment is most often internalized / we knew all along, our woes an offbeat cry / to the rest of the planets unwavering bass line.
Scrutiny badgers us, in the guise of necessity / when in reality, it is the / furtherment of our marginalization. / What’s in your pants? / What bathroom do you use? / How do you **** / Liquidated words flow free like water, / but stay behind, slow and thick like hot tar; / it hurts just the same. / Has it occurred to you / that THEY might want to share with you / more than the anatomy of THEIR mortal shells? / THEIR minds, THEIR souls transcend ignorant thought. / Ask THEM something beautiful, because that is what THEY are. / Do THEY come together like a star, in a glorious explosion of light and motion? / Or is it more like a flower blossoming, fragile pulses beating under translucent skin?
The labels of today / the toxic expectations building up from within / like residual filth trapped under your fingernails / never gone, bound to return, nearly inescapable / and never directly addressed / for the sake of not / corroding. / The stars are within kaleidoscope eyes. / yes, dexterous hands have crafted this being / see the light, the mystique and wonder of / this stardust child, set to change the spin of things. / and THEIR heavenly shape is beautifully flawed / maybe marred by the solar winds of the sun / or glimmering with interstellar dust- / a lingering kiss of radiation / from THEIR time among the asteroids. / This person of universal intent / THEY must be big, and THEY must be brave / for whilst joined under flag and name, THEY are still just one / a lonely phantom wandering cracked, forgotten sidewalks / Where the lights flicker and the air is stagnant and thin. / THEY cast THEIR eyes skyward, searching for something / a twinkling like THEIR own, in the map of the vast unknown / A reflection of what THEY must become / to simply be.
In a way only the universe can, / it whispers back on the celestial winds / with an unnoticed correspondence. / One of those skidded toe marks / Has smudged the lines of / blue and pink / Hopscotch lines, much like unspoken, unbroken lines / that is where THEY reside. / the fray, the cusp, the precipice / THEY see THEIR world in the skidmarks / a grand spray of color, like the nebulas that THEY once knew / Not the line, but the divergence of what is known / into something new... / and a hopscotch hymnal, / a broken prayer on clumsy lips / not to the God with the high tops, / pearly and clean as heaven’s gate, / but to a vast and anonymous universe / is answered.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
There is a blue bird sitting on
a fence post, faded,
staring at a fatherly-made
house.
Entry is refused as the belongings
(or leftover garbage)
from the previous occupants is still obtained.
This must be what it is like
to lose your virginity!
I have been trying to find
the sense of home
drowning in our separated garage.
It's never as strong as I hope
or believe it will be
and that's fine.
This is acceptance.
Nothing is bullet-proof,
but predator-resistant.
Spoonfuls of courage must have been
fed to me
willingly
in my sleep
for today I am no victim.
On this day, I am no longer chained
to the inferiority
pressed upon me.
I am free.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
Anytime my coffee gets cold
I can't help but think of you
It scalds my mouth as I drink it too fast
But the pain doesn't compare
To that I feel missing you
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
you're the kind of girl
they write sad indie songs about.
a grandly woven rug, full of color and zeal
held together with cheap scotch tape
and promises written in thick smoke by the most crafty of tongues.
dangerous girl-
though just as much to herself as to the rest of the world.
you're the kind of girl who thinks of herself
as a character in an offbeat film:
starkly humorous, deeply tortured,
a promising independent piece that doesn't quite have its identity yet.
maybe such a film is the brainchild
of a few washed up art students
some of which got together with cheap whiskey
and enough ambition to keep the world turning
for a little while longer
so they could breath life into you, starchild.
their lonely, brilliant minds fused into one
equally brilliant
equally lonely
teenage deadbeat
who's trying
but only just enough
to make herself feel something.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
My darling,
upon the mountain's caress.
My schizo-friendly mess
in a pineapple dress.
I couldn't love less
or less of you.
Young explorer,
drifting from world to world.
A huckleberry eye
that shifts from trembling duress,
with my hands onto her back.
Why can't life cut you any slack?
The chair is going out under
as the skies are mumbling thunder.
My violin underneath the sin,
sounding from within
"...I love you."
Broken water
bounce from cheek to chest.
Your breathing sounds the best.
With my words onto your lips,
and how the saliva drowns and drips.
I grip around your hips,
with the world releasing a boulder,
that drops upon your shoulder,
and I shake you senselessly,
why can't god set you free?
I can feel from you to me.
Blood, down, to ever and let go,
with your body in the snow.
My river-drowned girl,
engulfed by the swirl.
Love, oh no, from year to year.
Your words so everclear,
"I love you, too."
Silver-shiner,
moon-kissed and ever so,
your feet on the bathroom floor,
the kills from the handled snore.
What I wouldn't give to drink
from your fountain.
What I wouldn't give to die
on your mountain.
My darling, from colored-t.v.,
with a kiss and a motel fee,
I could know what the known couldn't,
with my fingertips where they shouldn't.
Turn down the volume and say
that you'll stay another day
or three.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
The tent fly
flapped
in the
Arizona dream.
I fell out
of the door.
Saying,
"I should be
dead soon."
My bleeding feet
stained the
brown sugar sand.
And God
was everywhere;
in my cuts.
In me.
In us.
And God
was nowhere;
absent-hearted-
blood-kissed-
consciousness.
My hands gripped
at the cheeks
bordering thin lips.
I kissed the
Arizona dream
as if it were
my own.
If it were my own.
If you were my own.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC