Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
addy r Jun 2014
Do you want me on the table, my love?

Or shall we have it on the bear skin rug where it’s warm?

Either way, you can hear my hips beckoning to you.

Oh how they crave your bodice around mine, like wrapping paper around a gift. That’s right, you’re my gift after a day of listening to nonsensical chatter.

Do you feel me trembling baby?

That’s right, I’m excited. I am going to make you feel so, so exhilarated, that perhaps you wouldn’t be able to walk after that.

You may not even want to wake up without me by your side.

That’s how I go, and you know you crave me.

Let your lips get to know mine first, let them mingle and explore the depth of each other, while our hands traverse the canvas we have before us.

Our legs won’t be able to resist tangling themselves, and once we untangle them, the fun begins.

Fill the hollow between my legs, and take me to a heaven I’ve never known.

Make me scream your name to the skies and you shall scream mine.

Don’t whisper; I like it rough, where pulling and perhaps recreational scolding is involved.

Tame me with a whip, or a riding crop, whichever you prefer.

I won’t bite, unless you want me to.

Just remember that the next morning will be as enjoyable as the night before.

twitter handle has changed!! :)
addy r Apr 2014
I think about the end a lot, and there are just a whole bunch of messed up thoughts swirling around in my head, and I cannot contain them for long. My thoughts are stars that I cannot fathom into constellations.

They’d be swimming in the endless pool of my own brain fluid, but then again, no one really knows why brain fluid is called brain fluid. No one explained the origin of words, meaning and even of what I am writing right now. How is it that you comprehend whatever I am trying to put across in this form? I know our brains process the information it receives by sound waves or visual waves and then turns it into something we call understanding and knowledge. No one understands the world out of sciencey terms and things that are found on textbooks, and I don’t either.

I live alright without acknowledging the existence of an unknown deity who is presumed to account for everything that happens on this earth, and really I don’t even know how people came to the conclusion of putting themselves below gods. It is confusing you see, and sometimes I also wonder why anything with eggs is considered breakfast only.

The thing is, we pretend to understand what we are trying to comprehend, and then we turn this information that we assume into knowledge for others, in hope that the human species can now fully determine the reason for everything.

In actual fact, no one knows why anything happens.

There are many theories behind death and whether or not anything happens after that.

Some say that a person’s soul is ****** out of them by the higher-ups when they are brought to Judgment – the area between heaven and hell.

I don’t know anything about death and dying cells, I only know that you have left me, and the body I once embraced is now lying ten feet beneath the earth in a wooden case, still as a rock. Why has this happened, Augustus? Tell me why. I stand here, a little ways from what used to be you, and I wonder so much and so far about the future and everything that ever was you. You’ve left me for capital S somewhere and I don’t want this to be, but it is.

I miss you, Augustus Waters, and everything that ever was and ever will be you. I miss the kisses we shared and our trip to Amsterdam and our first meeting… Every memory that we have ever beheld is in my mind all the time and I keep second-guessing myself, asking whether you’ve really left or you’re still here, but just hiding.

Come out of the shadows that hide you and please reveal yourself, for I miss you so.

I want you to say you’re okay, and maybe okay will be our always.

a TFIOS spinoff! This is inspired after I just read the book (finally) and also this makes lots of references to it :)
addy r Apr 2014
It might hit you all at once, or a little by little. It’s best if the former happens, because feeling nothing is worse than feeling something.

It starts with a dull pain in the abdomen (science can’t explain this) and it intensifies once you have fully made sense of the situation.It is like a gas stove, with varying sizes of flames, big and small. It burns now, and you feel extreme discomfort throughout your torso.

You want to lie down, to tear your heart out and wash it thoroughly with iced water, because the fires burning inside of you are too hot to bear. But, once you do lay yourself down, the screaming starts, and your vision blurs. Hot tears escape your eyes and it doesn’t stop there. Pillows are thrown across the room and before you know it, your frail body is sprawled out on the floor in a mess of arms, legs, blood and more tears.

You’d think that staying the same way for the whole night is a good thing to do; lying on the bed you once shared with the cause of your torment is too torturous to bear. But, you’d tire of crying before long and eventually you’re fast asleep on the soft bed, under layers and layers of thick quilts.

However, when you awaken, the feelings start again, and you are unable to walk. You are on your bed for the whole day for what seems like eternity to you.

After a month or so of nightly wails, you’ll wake up one day feeling none of that *******. The fires will have been extinguished by then and everything will be fine.

You are fire-proof once more.

  Apr 2014 addy r
Why is black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so *viveamus per camenam nostram.
^^^let us live through our poetry
addy r Apr 2014
not even biology can describe this searing pain that’s ripping through my chest and sending my system into overdrive, where the tears are inexplicably rolling down my cheeks and leaving blood-stained trails as they go.

the feeling that comes with watching another day go by and YOU ARE STILL NOT MINE is a rather unpleasant one, and i always fear the long hours of wailing and clawing at my skin which usually comes after.

i can’t tell you how many times i’ve pulled at my knee socks, looking for the major vein in my legs that once severed, would allow me to escape this hell that i am experiencing. not even the unnecessary shedding of my own blood is enough to stop the pain of this feeling, that you don’t see me as how i see you.

can’t you tell that i wanna be yours?

Next page