Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The joining
of your soul to mine
You feel it
My heartbeat
Through your lips
My breath
Swirls
Like painting light
Across your body
Fingertips
Tracing bliss
Of knowing
You are mine
Of mixing
Blessing
With desire
Of sacred acts
Older than memory
Of feeling
Your soul
Blend and curl
Under your skin
Letting me in
Meet me
In the place
we both know
is Home
Where I
Belong to you
With names
I cannot remember
My aching heart
Longs to surrender
To everything
Without fear
Meet me here
 Aug 2018
Phi Kenzie
oooooooooooooo

I bet I could be an oak
if I tried hard enough

Extend my roots
maybe branch out a little
lead with my leaves

Reach for the sky!

Let my bark ring true
through the sea of trees
Watered by rain
Fed by sun
Raised in Earth
 Aug 2018
Smoke Scribe
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now
if you recognize yourself within, it is no accident!
thank u all for the love and appreciation. one writes many poems in many disguises, so it is hard to believe  that an 8 month old poem, sent to you for safekeeping, is shortly thereafter barely recalled.
and then is rebirthed, and wouldn’t change a word...
imagine that!
 Aug 2018
pri
write something beautiful,
they ask, beg,
threaten.

but i feel so utterly,
so utterly,
uninspired.

the ink is running off,
and dripping to the floor.

beautiful women live in my head,
beautiful melodies play through it.
yet nothing beautiful comes to mind.

tired eyes stare back at me
-because this beautiful summer life is dying.

there is so much to do now,
and i can’t seek out inspiration.
i’d have to hunt it.

i’d have to save this part of myself,
immortalize it in the fabric of my clothes.

i’d remember it in class,
starring out the window.

i’d remember it in winter,
wrapped in a sweater’s embrace.

and then it would die in the spring,
the most beautiful season, so they say.

i
hate
it.

but i think for now i’ll immortalize this moment,
with the hate and fears,
with the threats and the fame.

because i’ve written something ugly.
this is my reminder.
 Aug 2018
lX0st
Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin
 Aug 2018
Cloud
"She suffers with depression".
What do you see right now? In your mind's eye?
I know what you see.
You see a pale, skinny but beautiful girl curled up in their bed all sad and crying into the arms of a parent/lover/friend.
Let me tell you something.
That's not what it looks like.
Depression is not romantic.
That girl hasn't showered for three days. Her room smells. Her hair is greasy and unkempt.
She isn't crying. She's binge eating while watching TV episodes into the night.
 Aug 2018
Phi Kenzie
Do not eat
two full dill pickles
soaked in Franks Red Hot Sauce
with an eight and a half ounce bag
of Flaming Hot Cheetos
also dipped in hot sauce
without expecting repercussions
Oof ouch
 Aug 2018
Kathryn Irene
Your mind is
p o w e r f u l

Your thoughts
d e s t r u c t i  e


Though your
heart is
f a i l i n g

you continue to
c r e a t e

Your lips are
s i l e n t

to the pain
you must
e n d u r e

- SkullsNBones
From my instagram
www.instagram.com/SkullsNB0nes
Next page