I don't ask you to be faithful - you're beautiful, after all -
but just that I be spared the pain of knowing.
I make no stringent demands that you should really be chaste,
but only that you try to cover up.
If a girl can claim to be pure, it's the same as being pure:
it's only admitted vice that makes for scandal.
What madness, to confess by day what's wrapped in night,
and what you've done in secret, openly tell!
The ******, about to bed some Roman off the street
still locks her door first, keeping out the crowd:
will you yourself then make your sins notorious,
accusing and prosecuting your own crime?
Be wise, and learn at least to imitate chaste girls,
and let me believe you're good, though you are not.
Do what you do, but simply deny you ever did:
there's nothing wrong with public modesty.
There is a proper place for looseness: fill it up
with all voluptuousness, and banish shame;
but when you're done there, then put off all playfulness
and leave your indiscretions in your bed.
There, don't be ashamed to lay your gown aside
and press your thigh against a pressing thigh;
there take and give deep kisses with your crimson lips;
let love contrive a thousand ways of passion;
there let delighted words and moans come ceaselessly,
and make the mattress quiver with playful motion.
But put on with your clothes a face that's all discretion,
and let Shame disavow your shocking deeds.
Trick everyone, trick me: leave me in ignorance;
let me enjoy the life of a happy fool.
Why must I see so often notes received - and sent?
Why must I see two imprints on your bed,
or your hair disarrayed much more than sleep could do?
Why must I notice love bites on your neck?
You all but flaunt your indiscretions in my face.
Think of me, if not of your reputation.
I lose my mind, I die, when you confess you've sinned;
I break out in cold sweat from hand to foot;
I love you then, and hate you - in vain, since I must love you;
I wish then I were dead - and you were too!
I won't investigate or check whatever you try
to hide: I will be thankful to be deceived.
But even if I catch you in the very act
and look on your disgrace with my own eyes,
deny that I have seen what I have clearly seen,
and my eyes will agree with what you claim.
You'll win an easy prize from a man who wants to lose,
only remember to say, 'I didn't do it.'
Since you can gain your victory with one short phrase,
win on account of your judge, if not your case.

Cause it tortures me, that you must know.
The way you give away your smile.
I’d thought that it was mine to keep,
And it seemed so for a while.

But age before beauty again,
So again I’m tossed aside.
By someone who is “good for you,”
Someone you don’t have to hide.

Even though I wont admit it,
I’ll still be here for you
When she walks out, cause she’ll walk out
And you won’t know what to do

You’re welcome to my arms, you know.
They’ll always be right here.
Like a country song we’ll dance
And you can hold me near.

But this is just a midnight dream.
You wont be here when I wake.
You’re gone away with her, I think.
You’ll be far when I awake.

So I’ll just keep my eyes closed,
And let the tears fall down my face
Cause at least in my midnight dream
We can be in the same place.

The girl was scared of puddles
And she was scared of rain
Every time the thunder clapped
She raced back inside again

She was given beautiful umbrellas
And coats of waterproof silk
But still she sat inside
And read on the window sill

As she grew the rain poured harder
And the girl cowered away
She hid behind her mother’s back;
She never ran to play

She was afraid of what the droplets were
So she sat and watched them gather
She still refused to step outside
And so she grew ever sadder

People came along
And people quickly left
They found the girls odd cowardice;
The way she counted every breath

There came a day when it was too late
And the girl was forced outside
She was lost without her silken coats
And with no place that she could hide

The girl was chilled clean through to bone
And her shy life came to an end
In her silken coats she reached the gates
And the golden stairs she did ascend.

In God’s own home she lay down her fears
And she swore that she’d be brave.
For there there are no window sills
And no pouring rain or hate.

Saint Peter smiled and praised her,
The girl who’d been inside,
And Saint Peter whispered truthfully
As he watched the young girl cry:

“Now, girl who’s scared of puddles,
And girl who’s scared of rain,
Did you ever think that when the thunder claps
It doesn’t have to mean your pain?”

“There’s others out there, like you
Who have suffered just as much
Yet they stay strong and they pull through
And they do not lose touch.

“I’ve been here always to protect you,
And that will never change.
So when you’re scared next just think of that,
And stand to face the rain.”

You must learn to love the puddles
And embrace the freezing drops
Dance under the thunderclouds
Until the lightning stops

I want to write
Without letters
I want to kiss you
Without lips
I want to choose
without thinking
I want you
Without me

Let me start with a cliche: I love to write.
Let me edit it: I love writing
Lying on the floor
Truths in my head
Think
Of me
Baggy Pajama Pants

Once upon a dainty hill
sat old castle of a young king
not busied by ***** thrills
but in the realm, fair Muse did sing

sorry as such
to trouble you sire
but farmer, lady and great squire
are, unto you, to enquire
how it is the sun makes such fire

to this the young king
furrowed his brow
and scratched his chin
and pondered how

eight days did pass
and woe betide
the pressing question
found no bride

the elders of the castle old
let fairy tales of disorder unfold

a great dragon they say
lit the sun
after finding itself lost
and on the run
from a shadow giant
of world unseen

but the tales of course
were all but dreams.

A little voice
filled the air
with light and weightless
soulful flair

a blacksmith's girl
of simple dress

excuse me sir
i must confess
this minor stir
has caused me stress

the young king bade her speak
and with that, the child weak
stood atop a wonky box
with certain eyes and wavy locks

dear people
i now must say
that it is on this cold and fateful day
my mind has led to such dismay

as I have learned to trust none of you.

The most powerful thing in the world isn't a thing.
It's the feeling when

You're on top of a man, and

His eyeballs start to roll back into their sockets, and
There is a moment.
There is a moment when his
Soul
Rockets
Spell-bounding lengths away from his ties,
Drifting amidst the stellar pockets glistening blissfully amongst the skies of your
Galaxy.

Listening

A heavy
Fluency of
Fantasy,
A mystical entrancing fascinating wonderful wondrous moment
and you
Capture
The thunderous entirety of his
Control.
You behold
The entirety of his control.
On top of this man,
On top of the world;
I can see
The universe.
The universe is all powerful.
Most powerful.

Powerful:
-the adjective for;
Having great
Power
Or
Strength.