In all honesty I do deeply feel for you
but I don't want to make love to you, no...
I want to *******.
I want to make sure the only words you can utter are “more, faster, don't stop”
I want to dive in deep in your pink matter until I smash into your soul and become one with it
I want to make sure that our bedroom is the only place you want to be in. for lifetimes. With colored dreams of what we can expect to come off our fantasy
I wanna ride you like a horse
I want your moans to be the music to my ears
I want the wax to disappear when you moan
And put your nails under my skin
I want those back marks, for unforgettable memories of what we have created in our own, room.

By: dvniel x ofentse_tsie

Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe

This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay

The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page

Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again  
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries

How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near

You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come

Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array

We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover

Love is blind, blurry vision of lovely illusions
Breaking chains of the heartbreaks and heartaches
Smiling through genuine happiness, and not sadness
Mask of truer happiness, and not of fake smiles
I wanna travel the world with you - reach the depths of your heart
And make the corners of your garden of eden smell sinful; ***
I wanna make sure that my touch is the only one that makes your soul wanna move out your body. Echo my name in the streets of the great grey matter and make sure that I'm forever. Let's make the heavens shake with this love. it might **** us, but trust me, it's all worth it. It's more than a thrill. It's more than a fling, it's US.

By: @OfentseTsie & @_Dvniel

you told me that
i wasn't good enough

and in the end
i believed you

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines