Till you can’t walk
Till you are sore,
Yet still smiling
from the thrilling experience,
Till you are sweating pleasure
from every pore.
Till your breath murmurs
my first name with every inhale
Till my voice is the only sound
your ears need to hear.

i would
rest my head on your breast
and listen
Enjoy the sweet tunes composed by
every noted word you harmonize

Tales of your life stories before they became entwined with mine
Narratives about your dreams
About who breaks your glassy heart
And what tickles your eye-ducts
into opening a flood of tears.

an inner world of wishes
she deserves beautiful things,
The Nubian Queen,
Sunflower Child.

~ New-Black-SoUl #NBS

it’s hard to bring back
to life someone who’s
already a shadow suspended
by dust in sunlight.
a partially eaten heart
trailed by ******
bread crumbs with no
start in sight.
replications of
past complications
forge a plagiarized
grin notarized by a shaky
pen on abstract paper.
bringing back to life
sand-burnt knuckles
reflecting tremors
through coils in the bottle
seems anything but feasible,
recovery and relapse are
few and far between
with a fine line that
splits at the seam
without warning,
the ice meeting
the bottom of the glass
again is a slow
graze of fingernails
across chalkboards,
help seems out of reach
when the leather begins to
leech to your skin
with each question repeated
over and
over and ******* over,
perceptions of positivity
can only withhold the
constant of being
a placeholder in
the tangent of
consistencies,
but light has the ability to break
through windowsills
and curtains,
yes I speak from experience
because it’s the only thing
that wakes me up in the morning,
but as I become use to
walking dead
I found my light that
wakes me up
in the afternoon
and puts me to sleep
at night

Falling*

                          That’s the sensation.

                                                     ­             You don’t feel the *pain
                                                          ­                            or hear a slowing heartbeat.

You see
lights,
pretty
little
fairy
lights.

You start to


remember


all of the

things
you
lost.
The
places
­ you
hid
and
how
to


escape.


You
want
it
to
just
                                                          ­ end.
Maybe
you’ll
finally
find
what
was
always
missing.
Maybe
you
won’t.
Maybe
you
will.
You
may
never
ever
know.




You have formed
a suicide pact
                                                            ­                          *for one.

From love we suffer
From ashed we stand
From death we escape
and from life we dream
We struggle for love
We struggle for dreams
We are attach to an illusion star
But we never stop writing poems...

It’s sometime past midnight
on a wednesday,
stumbling around the
house once again,
where floorboards
cry out and I resent
every thing I said
and held back,
every cigarette
that whispered
until my lungs
turned black,
shards of beer
labels collide
with dust piles,
ashes skidded
aimlessly on
the pine,
hopelessly wandering
looking into
hindsight
was only
a mess to
clean up,
I haven’t eaten today
but the dishes are *****,
it’s 11:30
and I’m glued
to the bedsheets
as the bed weeps
with each toss and turn
comes contemplation
to cross and burn every
memory embedded,
the bedroom smells
like cloudy ashtrays
and things unfinished,
our paths crossed
in october,
and yesterday was
tough on everyone.

You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive.

Be aware that the velvet sage
of the leaves belies their power
to take over every space, remember
roots burrow deep, anchoring in
fissures we don’t even know exist.

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.

The woman I love is addictive , Her fragrance lingers in my mind and every now and then I wouldn't be able to get enough of her .
My love for her is like a drug, her smile is like medicinal marijuana .
While every breath of her puts my head into the clouds even picking me up on the lowest days,
I can come up to her smile and say hi.
I can count on her smile and stay high .
I can be a ******* addict on trance idling on the text in front of me wishing I can sniff up every line she gives to me.
The only thing I'm afraid of is going to rehab and in there I would learn to live my life without being hooked on to her.

the past isn’t something
to forget about,
she has blonde hair
she complains about it,
always putting it up or down,
she’s indecisive ,
her ex called her
things were
going great,
bringing up the past
like it was yesterday
or a month ago,
they kept to each other
but the tension screamed
and snapped progression,
we weren’t an accident
and this relationship flipped
faster than the gravel gave out
last October,
things moved fast
like last October,
we laid in inhaling
bedsheets,
I never realized
how much perfume
she put on until she left
me and the duvet finally
exhaled,
every time we ******
seemed like
we’ve been doing
it for much longer,
comfortability came with
the amount of time
the cigarettes couldn’t
stop talking and talking
until 8am,
my speech held
tandems with
trust the moment we
saw eye to eye,
retrospected reflections
given with every new kiss
dripped away from her lips
striking a match with new feelings
burning the useless old,
perpetuated post-mortem
glances to discussions of
mind depth lead to understanding,
giving swine wings
and through everything
we’ve gone through
in short time
she still has a
hard time figuring
to wear her hair
up or down.