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Apr 10 · 77
light friend
Payton Apr 10
today has been so long and so tiring; i think i should lie
down. the anxiety has me feeling like a stranger
a lot lately. it’s not the only thing getting me down
it’s always the same sad songs that i’m listening
to that make me feel alive it’s usually always music that brings light
back into my life but lately, music isn’t my only friend

sometimes, i wonder if you really are my friend
i can’t help it, i know it’s the anxiety telling me a lie
in the same way my depression tells me i should “eat light”
my mental health has turned me into a stranger
but it helps to know you’re listening
it helps to know i’m not alone while all of this is going down

whenever you hit me up, ****** up and down to hang, i’m always down
sometimes its not me, but you rather, who is in need of a friend
i know what its like —how it helps to know you’ve got someone listening
and of course i am always happy to —even if i’m not happy, and i won’t lie,
i’m not happy, but i could try to bring you some light and though stranger
things have happened, it would be enough if i could be your light

and you could be my light
guide me through the dark, lift me up when i’m down
or even, just keep me company while i reckon with this stranger
that is the result of my mental health, just being there, being a friend,
talking to me for hours on end, when sometimes its all I can do to just lie
in my bed, quietly listening

and i know i spend a lot of time listening
but its comforting and it makes me feel light
somehow, it banishes briefly, the lie
my brain tells me, trying to keep me down
of course, the lyrics to this song fit —"thoughts of a sober friend”
i don’t mind and i’d even say for you to be sober would be stranger

i remember when you were just a stranger
i’m glad you kept talking and i kept listening
and im glad this happened the way they did —you being my friend
and us bringing each other some small sliver of light
in a world of darkness that seems to go down, down, down
we splash through the shallows of the expanse, chanting “don’t believe the lie”
Mar 1 · 884
Feast For Aphrodite
Payton Mar 1
In the pedestal bowl rests oyster and artichoke and chilies
She has rinsed and now carries them carefully, as if they are the keys to the kingdom and they are
If thou art a Grecian goddess, then I be the sophist, the bush tender and the like
How I long to be a handmaiden, though—servant in the shadows, attendant awaiting in the alcoves
How long does the maid spend freely in her bedchambers? How much time is spent warming her pearls and pendants and armbands and rings?
How often does she go to the food stores and pluck from the cornucopia, the food of love?
How I yearn to be the chambermaid, warm water and oils and rags ready when it came time to wash the day off.
How I desire to be the one advising her attire, dressing her ******* in silk and linen.
How I yearn to come with pomegranate, fig, and frond to fan her while she gives pleasure, fruit in hand.
How I envy the handmaiden who knows her as closely as she knows herself.
Payton Mar 1
If I were never again to look upon your face, more magnificent than pure moonlight, I shall pluck out my own eyes,
that I might never look on anything else again,
that I might delight in your beauty in my minds’ eye endlessly.

If I were never again to feel your skin, like silk beneath my caress, I shall cut off my hands,
that I might never feel another beneath them, that I might never feel myself beneath them,
that I might relish your touch in distant pleasure always.

If I were never again to hear your voice, that sweet melody to my weary ears, I shall sew them shut,
that I might never hear another honeyed sound, not in music, nor moans, nor mundane mouthings,
that I might preserve forever the last enchanting utterances to pass through your rose lips.

If I were never again to smell you, that rich, earthy scent that drives me mad, I shall plug it up,
that I might never soak in a pleasing smell, that I might never let the stenches of the day-to-day,
keep me from forever adoring the varying, yet haunting fragrances of you.

If I were never again to taste you, those sugared velvet lips, I shall take out my own tongue,
that I might never enjoy neither worldly fare nor the flavor of another,
that I might savor you in memory for all eternity.

If I were never again to have you, a painful return to the dark ages, I would cast myself wholly and completely into watery depths or rising flames,
that I might never experience time and space without you, love.
The title —αναίσθητος χωρίς αγάπη —is Greek for senseless without love.
Mar 1 · 352
Burn
Payton Mar 1
I'm the kind of girl who burns through guy friends like rubber on tiers, like sulfur on matches, like gasoline and kerosine and flameward moths.
But I don't want to burn through you.
We just go together so well—like puzzle pieces.
You and I are like day and night, sun and moon.
If you only knew how it eats me up inside, keeping my cool.
I feel this tiny spark dancing in my heart and it threatens to rake my body in flames, ready to pounce on me, licking and biting at the first sign that I'm falling for you.  
I'm really trying to hold my fuse right now, but one second we're joking and laughing and in the next you say something that tugs at me and I feel my hold on it slipping.
If I don't burn you first, this fire in my bones will certainly consume me.
Mar 1 · 596
Melt
Payton Mar 1
Steel at my back
a welcome intrusion,
confirming my own suspicions, permitting my desires
—sharpening them, even.
Fuel to the flames.

Silken petals drip
sweet, honeyed molasses dew
nocturnal flower blossoming
—firelighting below Diana’s gaze.
Spindle to depression, kindle and spark,
we set the world ablaze.

Caught like a butterfly in the spider’s web,
trapped, held mindlessly, mercilessly betwixt
pleasure and pain —saccharine release promised only
from the combining of silk and steel, catching fire
and melting into one.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 439
Prayer
Payton Mar 1
"Oh God," she says, hands clasped together, fingers entwined, knees bent.  
He doesn't answer; /he does.
/he answers with earnest, continued, devoted worship,
head bowed, eyes closed, his mind devoid of all else but this
—this soul-shaking, earth-shattering pleasure, this blessed communion between man and woman,
the Holy Spirit an undoubted ****** through the candlelight,
this holy practice wherein they do some of their finest praying.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 95
Remnants
Payton Mar 1
Every little move, every soft step, every breath I take,
I am reminded of him; I am reminded that he was here.
I savor the subtle soreness, the secret that only we know
—the remnants of pleasure that reside there.
They remind me that I am his, and his alone.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 1.9k
Sonnet For Meditation
Payton Mar 1
I await him, naked, head bowed, kneeling
With leather and rope he binds me tightly
Deft hands’ feather touches send me reeling
Melting candles ready, burning brightly  
He blindfolds me then gags me with a bit
And through the darkness, slowly I am led
To a place where in pleasure I shall sit
‘til ecstasy claims me upon the bed
He’s summoned the small death from me thrice now
Three rounds; it does not end with my pleasure
“You’ll take and like what I give you,” he growls
We’re done when he pleases —at his leisure
After all the teasing, pleasing, and pain
We collapse together —one, once again
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 60
Jazz
Payton Mar 1
Is it too much to ask that we
just lay around with our
cigarettes and coffee and jazz
and just enjoy each other?

Why do we strive for perfection—
when it would only neglect
the intricacies of this gritty,
raw, ****** existence?
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 418
Reincarnation
Payton Mar 1
Resurrected, I arose
for mornings thick with lust
and love and caffeine and naked kisses
And again, when night came
I did too, and fell sweetly, sinfully  
prey to the small death
ushered in with a grand symphony
of your name
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 349
Small Death
Payton Mar 1
The French call an ******
“la petite mort” or “the little death”

tango with lips, teeth, and tongue
undress each other with our eyes
an unspoken agreement that
we’re both dying a little tonight
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 565
Crescent
Payton Mar 1
once I was a waning crescent, pale and thin—incomplete
a silver sliver of light peeking unwanted in between the
folds of the velvet, midnight sky

and now, having gazed at my sun from a world away, I
am whole—I am full and complete—grand designs,
imperfections, craters—making me no less whole

when you are near it is not you that completes me,
but rather you who illuminates the parts of me I
thought were lost forever

the paradox that you both do and do not complete me
brings me as much comfort as the sun’s warm rays
on my cheeks and the moon’s cool gaze on my back.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 49
Endless
Payton Mar 1
I am endless, immense,
no God nor Goddess am I.
No fixed being,
no stagnant, static entity,
no trapped energy,
no universe.
I am ever revolving,
undulating, expanding,
experiencing,
growing, evolving,
understanding.
I am eternal, infinite,
unfathomable,
unlimited.
I am woman, and I am endless.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 316
Possession
Payton Mar 1
eyes roll back
lips part slightly
soft moans come
short breaths loosed
steel thighs melt
nails dig in
possession?
small death?
or both?
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 53
Punishment
Payton Mar 1
Time and time again I self-sabotage
I drink the poison; I eat the dollar bills
I make bad decision after bad decision
to punish myself.

Now, I think it’s time I pour out the wine,
pour out my soul and let go of the pain
because how else will I ever hope to heal
my future when I keep beating myself up
over the past.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 40
Whole II
Payton Mar 1
Barnacled shipwrecks are beautiful in their sundered glory.
Ivy-covered age-old walls are deemed charming and quaint.
The moon is mystifying even with craters that can be seen with the naked eye

Neither age nor imperfections make you any less whole.
Instead, they showcase your closeness with nature and authentic beauty.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 371
Watering Hole
Payton Mar 1
He comes, she goes, no one every really sticks around much.
It rains, the sun bares its face, the clouds come back to steal it’s thunder.
Nothing is ever set in stone
Well, except for maybe human bones and Founding Fathers.

This is a poem I quickly threw together after I heard the line “Since when did my apartment become your watering hole of choice?” —Dan Humphery, Gossip Girl, S2:E22, 21:45-21:40. The last two lines are a play on Mount Rushmore and the setting, Founding Fathers, a bar that often appears in the hit TV Drama, Bones. In the show, Dr. Temperance Brennan, Agent Booth, and their friends often meet at FF for drinks after work. The poem is basically saying, “Nothing is certain, except alcohol and my favorite watering hole.”
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 731
Moonflower
Payton Mar 1
Night flower blossoming
Beneath the summer sky
Petal parasols unfurling
Throughout June and July

She was born under the moon
Nocturnal butterfly
Pollinated by pale moths
To live one day then die

Moonflower blooms in warmth
Her short season’s end nigh
Shriveling once the frost sets in
And conceding to the ice

Moonblossom rich in scent
A true pleasure to stand by
Her short-lived sweet fragrance
Would all surely vivify
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 50
Cursive
Payton Mar 1
As you wrote my name in
cursive with your tongue
I saw explosions behind my eyelids,
I heard a melody that was
so blissfully new, yet familiar,
I tasted lightning and saw colors
that for now have no name here,
and only exist in that realm.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 42
Catchlight
Payton Mar 1
As I stroked gently the head of the sun-spun hair draped
softly across my chest, I couldn’t help but find myself
thinking, for what must have been the hundredth time,
what are you thinking, how are you feeling?
What have we done to each other?
Yet, as if on cue, as if reading my thoughts,
your head snapped up and your eyes met mine.
You looked at me half-lidded and while my first
two questions remained unanswered, I realized it
was merely a catchlight I saw in your eyes, and
what we had done to each other was ***** out the
starlight that had once dwelled there.


“When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. I picture cracking her lovely skull, unspooling her brains, trying to get answers. The primal questions of any marriage. What are you thinking? How are you feeling? What have we done to each other?” —Ben Affleck, Gone Girl

Found poem from the opening lines of the movie, Gone Girl.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 36
Anew
Payton Mar 1
The world has turned grey in your absence and feels as if I will remain blind to all of its brilliant hues for as long as we’re required to be apart—for the foreseeable future.

When this is all over—when I do see you again, I know this dormant fire coiled in my bones will set us ablaze.
When we reunite, our kisses will be sweeter than our first kiss.

When we get together, our love will be even more ravenous, even more demanding, even more essential than before, and we will desire and be desperate to become reacquainted.

When I see you again, it will be like my soul has returned to the water, and once again I have been made anew.

When I see you again, every part of me that came from
the dust of dead stars will be alive again.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 259
25 Commands
Payton Mar 1
“Unbind
Unclasp
Uncover
Uncurl
Unfurl
Undo
Unfasten
Unfold
Unhing­e
Unhook
Unleash
Unlink
Unmask
Unroll
Unveil
Unclip
Unlace
Unzip
­Untie
Unbutton
Unlock”

“Undress.”
“Understood.”

Unravel
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 52
Siren
Payton Mar 1
Siren, sorcerer, seductress of my soul
Vampire of verve, temptress of thirst tantalizing,
captivating, enthralling me through craving
Wrenching away transmogrified desire exposing
a colossal and cavernous aching

Licentious liquors and provocative potions
Ethereal and corporeal hexthralling mixtures
Alluring, ensnaring, inviting concoctions  
Tempting with tinctures, enticing elixirs
Banquet of seduction and tonic of attraction
She is the enchanted device of my own unmaking
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 50
Holy Water
Payton Mar 1
As I sit in porcelain canoe, submerged
in lukewarm bathwater, which grows
colder and colder each passing second
I take a long, longing look down at my
belly-bowl full of jelly-rolls and wonder,
am I worth more than the sum of my parts?

Am I more than *** and ****?
Am I more than the 206 from 270 bones,
give or take a few here and there,
without which, I would be entirely jelly?
Am I more than the lips, the teeth,
the tip of the tongue?
more than the skin and hair and
and miles of veins pumping
life in pulse after pulse as I sit doing
nothing but contemplating my worth?

if you took it all away,
if you cold-shouldered  
this body I have come to
love and hate and love again
in one lifetime,
if you held the meat,
would the milk be enough?


I have fed you with milk, and not with meat: for hitherto ye were not able [to bear it], neither yet now are ye able (1 Corinthians 3:2).
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 45
Mojave
Payton Mar 1
Barren—they call you and now
it is your badge of honor, one
you wear proudly on display.

They likened you to a desert for
a lack of children and lack of
desire for them.

Be Mojave—Gobi—Sahara—
because your glittering, glass sand dunes
are great
and bearing fruit and flowers
is your prerogative and yours alone.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 32
Ice
Payton Mar 1
Ice
Ice
Beautiful, yet beastly.
Creeping translucent tendrils of cold.
Frozen, frigid fingers pointing down.
Crystalline and gelid shivs poised to ****.
It is only day two of the ice storm and there is
expectedly, more to come.
The weight of the world rests upon delicate, weary boughs, and though they're strong, they were not made for this.
Limb after limb encased in ice, cracks and secedes from the once-great behemoths —remarkable evergreens, landing in a crashing heap, only to be collected once the thawing ends.
One tree, if not the most important of them all, is kept under careful surveillance—24/7 watch.
She is called Survivor—for weathering a different kind of storm— though now, 25 years later, will she survive this? She has already lost one great branch, and others now cannot bear the weight of frozen glaze on their spindly arms.
Electricity is yet another danger to many others of her kind.
Fire and ice alike threaten to claim them.
This poem was written in 2020 and is inspired by the great Oklahoma Ice Storm of 2020. There is a reference to Oklahoma's Survivor tree in there somewhere ;)
Mar 1 · 50
Haunt
Payton Mar 1
C.  kissed me in his beater car
J.  in the hall,
But he only looked at me
and never kissed at all.

C’s kiss was quick, demanding,
J’s was sweet and light,
But the kiss that lingered on his lips
haunts me day and night.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 193
guilt
Payton Mar 1
each day I push the stone
each day I tread the waves
each day I carve the marble

but when

when will I see peace —the long-craved result of all this guiltful carving?
when will I breathe feely, free of tons of tons pushing and pulling on me from every side?
when will the stone break over the mountain and bring rest?

when will forgetfulness step out from the block and free me from my bonds by saying,
"enough tears, I've come to end your suffering"?
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 83
Elise
Payton Mar 1
I was meant to be named Elise but my aunt stole that name away from my mother —from me

I never felt like an Elise anyways, but even so I’ve always felt a strange ownership of the name and when the girl named Elise sat
in the back of my painting class, I felt a kind of kinship to her, perhaps in name or what might have been in name.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 33
Drink
Payton Mar 1
He looked at me with lamenting eyes
which said everything he hadn’t with
his own tongue and that was how
disappointed he was with me.

He caressed my legs which were draped
across his own but stayed quiet as I
supped hungrily on water which became the
only thing I could stomach after all the
drinks I’d happily given into

But if only he knew why —if only he
knew how terrible a place my mind is.
If only he knew how blissfully deadened
my racing thoughts were when I ******
on the sweet, stinging nectar.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 30
Cream
Payton Mar 1
It is the cream, the sugar the spoon
I should be reaching for, but this early,
my fingers know only the route to
the buttons on your shirt and the zipper
of your jeans and nothing else.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 28
Birdseye
Payton Mar 1
watched you walk
down cracked pavement
bird’s eye view

past yellow taxis
blue postal boxes
and red phone booths

details I could see from here
though none caught my
eye quite like you
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 44
2020
Payton Mar 1
He said never again would he flood the earth
but instead, we’ve been at the fingertips of war,
we’ve had rampaging fires that lasted months,
and now a plague wiping out our weak and wise

I’m convinced it’s the end of time now,  
and we still haven’t got flying cars.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 38
Temples
Payton Mar 1
You are no temple; you are a tree and that’s just fine.
Temples always crumble, but all trees grow tall with time.

You are a sequoia, with wedded roots running deep -
an ancient redwood with more strength than stone or concrete.

Trees stand tall through whatever weather comes, rain, snow, or shine.
Temples are felled in and out of battle, whilst trees remain sublime.  

Castles of men come and go, falling like sand into sea
What remains when we’ve all gone is the life in the trees.

Leaves color, fall, and come again, with each new springtime
Temples fall to ruin as empires of man decline.
This poem was written in 2020.
Mar 1 · 24
Holi Spirituality
Payton Mar 1
Color me in the seven
Touch your soul with mine
In our little slice of heaven
I Worship you, my love, divine

Go now, cast your spell on me
Blend us together for a new hue
I’ll be your faithful devotee
Love me, as I love you.
This poem was written in 2019.
Payton Mar 1
You teased and teased.
“*******,” I taunted.
You took me seriously.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 36
Set Me On Fire
Payton Mar 1
Set me on fire
my body will be the kindling,
my soul will be the flame.

how could you not know that
you’d be the oxygen, for fire
or flesh, I cannot breathe
without you.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 27
Veiled
Payton Mar 1
Silver rings upon your fingers
fingers trace my collarbone
silver’s soft, but gold lingers.
It reminds me of our home.

Where fleeting moonlight filters in,
through old windows veiled in lace,
over sheets, and over skin,
softly caressing your face.

Then, gold pours in once the sun
awakes form dreaming far beneath
a cloudless, moonlit horizon,
and falls like feathers on your cheeks.

An endless dance of day and night,
like hostages, inside we stay,
‘neath rays of gold and silver bright,
with you shall I forever lay.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 32
Morning Kisses
Payton Mar 1
a hot cup of
coffee in the  
morning is all
well and good
but I'd rather
have your lips
on mine, kissing
me awake
instead
This pretty thought was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 39
Mountains II
Payton Mar 1
All my life, I thought
I needed seas and
mountains and bright
city lights to be happy,
to be satisfied.

The truth is, all along,
I just needed you.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 55
Moonshadow
Payton Mar 1
He creeped in through my window,
the moon’s shadow peeking softly
while I slept, watching, observing, guarding
a neither malevolent nor benevolent thing
just existing, in his own orbit, pulling the tides,
serving his purpose, being.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 35
Windshield
Payton Mar 1
Glass plate, window to the road, the future, caked in red dust and
baked in sunlight, showing nothing but blue skies ahead,

I wish it had only been blue skies ahead.
I’ll never forget that warm summer afternoon when it was you instead of the sunrays beaming through the windshield,
when the air was so hot, we had to roll down the windows,
except, of course, the windshield remained,
and you didn’t.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 24
Wildflowers
Payton Mar 1
Perhaps we should look to the
natural sweetness of wildflowers.
They’re beautiful without reason,
blooming each summer, for no one,
yet, their beauty is a truth that has
stood the test of time.
Mar 1 · 46
Sweet Hot Tea II
Payton Mar 1
He was sweet, dripping honey from
his lips, lust from his eyes,
fire from his hands.

I know sugar is bad for me.
My head reasons, drinking from
crystal clear fountains of love
would do me more good than
that sweet sap, that poison, slowly
killing me, eating me from the
inside out, desire coursing
though my veins.

But my heart welcomes the sting, and
savors the burn as it moves down and
down and down
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 29
Sweet Hot Tea
Payton Mar 1
He might be sweet, dripping
honey from his lips, lust from
his eyes,
fire from his hands.

But sugar is no good for you,
***, and wouldn't you rather
drink from crystal clear
fountains of love than


let sweet, hot tea burn
you again and again?
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 43
self love
Payton Mar 1
you don't have to
love yourself
everyone says to,

that you can't really
love someone completely
if you don't love yourself

the truth is, you just have
to accept yourself and say

it might get better,
it might not, but I'll
stick around anyways
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 36
Oak
Payton Mar 1
Oak
He was never my rock
but he was always my oak,
constantly standing through
whatever weather I blew his way,
and still growing.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 33
Moonsight
Payton Mar 1
Day after day and night after night you watch the sun and stars swirl overhead.
How many times must I remind you to not take for granted all that which you've been blessed so richly with, before you realize that in keeping count of stars, you lost sight of the moon.
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 29
Milk II
Payton Mar 1
Between sips of espresso and difficult late-night conversation,
I realized I like my coffee with milk and that Cancer hurts.
It hurts those who have it and those who have those who have it.

When I explained how frightened I was that my friend
had been diagnosed with Cancer, he diminished my feelings
by saying, “I had a friend with Cancer. She died of it.”

Between difficult late-night conversations and espresso,
I realized; I like my relationships with milk as well.

Found Poem from *** and The City, Season 6, Episode, 16
This poem was written in 2019.
Mar 1 · 32
Love Me
Payton Mar 1
Love me as an artist loves to create.
Love me as the pianist loves the feeling of his hands across the keys
Love me as the sun loves the day and the moon the night.
Love me as I love you, or not at all.
This poem was written in 2019.
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