I think every woman wants to be
Looked at like she's a piece of artwork,
Whether it be when she's first waking up,
Or when her body is scarcely covered by a sheet.

I think a woman is a piece of art
Worthy of a longing stare
From across a hall,
Or from her love across a bed.

Not to objectify,
But a woman's body is indeed lovely from
The curve of her spine
To the backs of her knees, to the way her hair falls.

I think every woman wants to be adored
By her love, man or woman,
Whether she's conscious of it
Or not.

Look at your love the way
You want to be looked at;
Like she's a piece of artwork
That doesn't sit in a museum,

But rather within your own reach,
Close enough to see her eyes light up,
Close enough to grasp her
Because unlike in museums,

She's a piece of art that you can finally look at and touch.

I tied your hands behind your back
In so many different ways.

One day, as I laced them together
At the small of your back,

You smirked and asked,
"What is this all about, exactly?"

The coy smile on your face
Didn't transfer to mine.

You felt this was a game,
Maybe a new "thing" I wanted to try.

Very seriously,
I prompted you and said,

"Touch me."

You looked across the room, dumbfounded,
As if I had asked you to fly or walk on water.

You looked down,
Fingered the rope around your wrists,

Looked back up into my eyes
And responded with,

"But how?
You tied my hands up."

I saw the puzzlement in your eyes,
As you tried to comprehend why I'd ask you

To try and touch me
With your hands behind your back.

I said it once more-
"Touch me."

You then looked at me like I was stupid,
Like I was out of my mind.

"Look, you tied my hands up.
Can't you see there is no way for me to touch you?",

You stated, matter-of-factly, to the point
Where I knew you would never understand.

I slowly backed away,
And began to turn,

But not before I looked over my shoulder
And said,

*"You don't always need your hands to touch someone,
And if that's the only way you know how to touch a person,
Then I'd rather you not touch me at all."

I have come to the conclusion
That all of life is merely an illusion.

Time is nothing more than relative
And love is ridiculously sensitive.

We astonishingly keep in tact
By sudden moments of impact.

These moments, as glee as they may be
Never last for long, especially for me.

They pass by with a shimmer and a wink
And when they're gone I do nothing but drink.

But nothing is sadder as when I am twisted
Because that moment is gone; I missed it.

I do not hate myself though
Because it's impossible to feel low.

When I am high as a kite
Just thinking about tonight.

And how I came to the conclusion
That all of life is merely an illusion.

Happiness is a gift;
Do not let it drift.

For not everyone is able
To feel an emotion so stable.

Eggnog,
Holly,
Presents,
Lights,
Cocoa,
Food,
Figurines,
And even
An indoor tree.

Oh yay.
More sweaters.

Oh yay.
More tangible things.

Oh yay.
I'm alone for yet another holiday.

Merry Christmas Everyone.

But roses are indeed red.
Usually because my wandering hands doubt the keenness of their thorns.
Similar to how I doubt the sharpness of my love.
Red with passion, then with pain.

Still, beautiful.

Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)


yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.

I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!

for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...  

so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.

that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.

She wears the cloak of strength and solidity
And carries a shield against self-pity
Her eyes tell tales of battles long gone
But scars have made her heart their home
Bruised but not broken she walks her own path
And beneath debris in the aftermath
Lies her integrity and in all honesty,
She's not the person they think her to be
She is simply a soul in a shell made of stone
But stones can crack-as is well known
And crack she has - her outward warrior goddess
Underneath it all she's shy and modest
Because of the fights that came before
And this is just another war
She'll push back down the little girl inside
Who wants to scream and run and hide
She'll face this conflict with cloak and shield
And her inner weakness won't be revealed

It takes all I have within me
not to give in to the vibrations
that throw me against the wall
saying, lick the residue of salt
that coats the back of his neck
like the condensation of a room
that we could bring to a boil.

It takes some serious restraint
to keep me from tossing aside
all abandon, shouting put
your hands on me and make
maps of pleasure dribble
out of my neglected body.
I’d return the favor in an instant.

Call it dual exploration.
Oh, I’m swelling and aching
hoping to provoke the tension
quivering on the line.
I want to taste your flavors
as they pour out of you.
I’m starving for so much more
than what this safety provides.


Let’s :
Pulverise the precedent.
Run with risk.
Rebel, revel with me
Split my thighs where they part.
Grow where you will.
Spill some swollen ***.
Pop me like a pin.
Sweat, swallow, breath
with absent eyes.
Be ferocious.
Whisper then scream.

I would do the same
and explode.
Feeling my heart rattle my chest.