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WickedHope Dec 2014
His green eyes stare into mine
Glistening in the candlelight
Shifting their gaze as it flickers
He kisses my hands and up my arms
Melting my heart and the snow
My cat. <3 ... He loves me because I feed him. -.-
Sally A Bayan  Sep 2016
LOVESEAT
Sally A Bayan Sep 2016
You were seated on the loveseat,
yet beside you, i couldn't be
made me feel...i, alone, would face eternity,
between us, lay an immeasurable spread...
your distance, was something hard to invade,
some kind of steel.....unthinkable to pierce
but, i broke  your wall...fractured your fears
rose from my square pillows
defied my rules, my fears
fought your dominant shadows

I pushed you to the edge...i did leave you in rage,
ignored your dagger looks,
to give way to change

it took a while.......i thought long....what if........
......................................................­.......

so...i brought in soft buttered Spanish bread
thought i'd chill your rage, with fresh, iced lemonade
while you drank, i squeezed your hand,
teased you with a glance
a tickle here and there
til you grabbed my hand

ahh...i love your controlled smile...
from challenging moments...you and i rise
i'd say......we're worth every daring effort exerted,

Us two, on the loveseat,
side by side,
sitting comforted.





Sally


Copyright May 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***another feel-good write.***
Shayla V  Sep 2011
Little Heater
Shayla V Sep 2011
All dimples and curls and pigeon toes when sitting,
purple; and gold dangles
light-skinned girl, dark-skinned girl
depending on the translation
hips swivel to the left, ******* that follow
in commanding black bras
and matching lacy *******.
Rolling backwards into handstands for most *******,
else on the loveseat
whipping love back and forth between the swell
beneath the shorts
and beneath the outer layers,
the lip gloss smiles and masquerades
beneath the veins and bone and guts:
there's a naked, quivering heater
switched on all year long
its dainty wiring peeking out,
the head of the cord puckered.
[08-12-11]
patti Nov 2012
late october,
today my heart is wandering,
I still listen to your music.
things I like fall in my lap and I pick up the phone to tell you,
someone I can hide behind

maybe I just like warm waists and strong arms
maybe I like feeling small,
I met this boy today, love,
he reminds me of home, of fresh tortillas wrapped in tinfoil
he reminds me of this summer, and of you.

he doesn't like the things we liked,
but he's a different fabric
and I am patching this idea that
we never stop loving anyone
They call it a Loveseat because it was designed for you to make love on it
We have to re-rate all those G-rated films with Loveseats in them
They imply ****** tension
And we don't want that exposed to our children!
It's the work of the devil!
I demand action on them now!
Can't you see i'm joking?
We're merely close to twenty years of this century
And it's only gotten more ridiculous
The future awaits
For more loveseat incidents
And people up in arms over tedious, pointless things that nobody should care about
But ISIS? That Egypitan babe has been dead for so long! What are you talking about?
There's no way that old darling is still alive?
Terrorism? What's that?
Is that the term they use when they see Loveseats in G movies?
Probably the most sarcastic poem i've ever written, maybe ever.
Styles May 2014
Be patient, it might take some time. Just, let it build up. Don't uncross’em  it will feel awesome. You should know yourself, what works best, rolling or rocking? Don't think about it, just relax. Use some muscle, the one between your legs. Hussle; ruffle and tussle, it’s like trying to make a puzzle fit; sometimes you gotta wiggle it a bit, a little bit.What’s wrong, you looked puzzled? You red, so into it. lights out; so intimate. Now try feeling between the lines, you have to focus a bit.  Forget what you read; and what's been said; you won’t go blind, it’s all in your head. The only time you should lose site, is when you re-sight this vision in your head; closed eyes, on your loveseat, sofa or bed. Just repeat it in your head, like Simon said. **** around and hit the right button, you might wet the bed.  My sign language tracing over your lips, repeating what I said.  First come, first serve; you can't be beat. Just, listen to my voice, follow my lead. See, you don’t need to see men, to succeed, you got me.So. take your time, no rush. Relax, match your breathing with mine. slow, down, take your time.Touch your fingertip, to your little tip, and grind- press down harder, yeah, that is it.. Pause, fast, forward, left, right; rewind.  Now, do all if that, one more time. But first, lick your fingertip, so your *******, rise and shine, glitterish. Your index, just slide, inside you appendix, cause I penned it; very specific.  Here's another  tip; curl your fingers, like a tongue would flick your upper lip - the thought alone should make you flip. Now your *******, soaking wet, that's my favorite. Just use your imagination; then go for it! Your heart will skip. Pace yourself, you can't cheat.  Sped up your hearts rate, to your beat. You might have left a note to yourself, but I’m the one that wrote it all over your sheets!
Fa Be O Jul 2014
When the world starts crumbling around me
I close my eyes and build.
A shelf here, our bed there;
a table for four, a porch for more;
Hardwood floors, soft pillows;
your record player, a piano;
framed photographs of ruins;
a loveseat piled with books.
When I start to question,
I start to build.
And in the long silences between us,
I am furnishing our home,
piece by piece,
until I forget the question,
and remember
that I,
that we,
are under construction.
july 14, 2014
Busbar Dancer Mar 2018
The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.

Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)

We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.

The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****.
You will die.”

Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.

Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.
Brandon Webb  Dec 2012
Untitled
Brandon Webb Dec 2012
I open the door-
three in the afternoon
my short hair windblown
and rain soaked
by the seven minute walk home
i've taken to taking
to avoid
the one who used to love me

i opened the door-
he was sitting there
too still to be in that purple chair
four feet from the door
that he only sits in
when the veins in his forehead
are popping out
themselves turning purple.
but, he was smiling;
that melancholy smile that makes me wonder,
even though i quit giving a ****
about him
when i was seven,
living with him in a bus
in a field, someplace.
with a sun lamp
and a *** plant
in the storage compartment

and she's lying there,
dressed, but barely awake
with that thin blue and white blanket
that she's had since he was young
draped over her
on that floral loveseat she's always had
a smile on her face
but tears in her eyes

he swivels the chair
to give me room to pass
but i ease instead
around the separating wall
through the kitchen
and down the hall.
a smile on my face
as i look back and he stands
that old chair complaining
as much as his back

he looks back at me
and i realize
why that look in his eyes
brought the same smile he wears
to my lips;
because he's realized
that i've won here,
that in six months
i'm gone
moving on
disconnecting myself
and becoming my own **** person

he's realized that he doesn't know me
never has

he's seen the way i shake
everytime he's less than twenty feet from me
heard
the waver in my voice

he's noticed the way
that even on good days
i open the door to the garage
five times at the most.

noticed the worry lines on my forehead
the gray hairs on my chin and head
my bitten fingernails
or the spot where I scratched
half of my mustache
right off my face

or, at least
i *** he has
hope he's realized that
there's no hope
for me and him

but
he hasn't
and that conversation
was just something else,
didn't even involve me

i can hope all i want
but until i take it all away
he's never gonna realize
that it isn't
Him
winning here

never has been



©Brandon Webb
2012
Hey, i really wanna thank you guys on this one. I wrote it yesterday, put it here a while ago, it took less than an hour to start trending, and, i just read it in a coffee shop downtown to 40 or more of my peers. Thank you all :)
Jon Shierling Oct 2013
There was water near, her horse could smell it, and so could she after journeying so far. Seemingly small things regained their importance in an empty land such as this, for what use is wealth without water, or power without others to wield it upon? A strange thought, not like her at all. People changed in this desert though; she knew from the way she watched her horse’s stride, and how she could remember all the names of the constellations, something she had not been able to do since times long past. She would not allow her mount to make directly for the water source, a well most likely, and she was wary. Around the foot of this dune, and there it was, the expected well, and a single palm standing sentry beside it. She drew water, relished the sound as it sloshed around in the hide bag, relished the act of letting her horse drink first, the joy of uncomplicated companionship. She drank, refilled her own water skins, ate a few dates, and let her gaze wander. She had maybe an hour left of daylight and was in no hurry to arrive, wherever it was that she was going. A hawk cried as it stooped upon a hare two hundred yards to her right, a beautiful thing to her. And on the heels of that, a fear. A quarter mile away, outlined against the distant plateau, walked another rider.

She had been drifting, sailing almost into a sleep, and now she was awake. What was that sound? Guitar. Her guitar, played with unsure hands, hesitant and sad. Bodiless chords making their way through the open window. God it was hot, oppressive almost, and she could still see the sweat beading on Clara’s forehead. She would not get back to sleep now, not so uncomfortable. She wriggled out of bed, carefully moving out of Clara’s arms. Needlessly though, Clara never woke without a good shaking or a loud noise. She pulled her green sweater off of the chair where it had been thrown an hour before and paused before putting it on. Something she had forgotten to do maybe, something at the back of her mind. Nothing. Closing the door behind her, she padded through the small living room to the open balcony and stood behind the man sitting on an old barstool, rescued he said, from a bar in Alfama. She watched him try and play her guitar, watched him bent in concentration. There was a bottle of wine and two glasses, one empty, standing on the wicker table next to him. Picking up the empty one, he held it out to her without turning around. “I hope I didn’t bother you Ta’ra, I was in a mood and couldn’t help it.” “No,” she said, taking the offered glass, “It’s too hot to sleep.” It annoyed her that he always knew when someone was around him, and in she and Clara’s case, which one of them. Curling up on the loveseat opposite him, she gazed out at Lisboa in all of its late afternoon beauty. “Give that back, you’re butchering whatever the hell it is you’re trying to play,” holding her hand out for her guitar. He handed it back to her, shrugged and said something about it being a long time since he’d picked up an instrument. She smiled, drained her glass, and began to play an old song, barely remembered. “Çevrem, etrafım şen mutlu iken. Ben yine hüzünlüyüm” She had never heard the melody played with a guitar, but she knew it well enough to play it without any hesitation. A haunting thing, this song, in a dialect she only knew by proximity, but no less powerful for people who cared for such things. She cradled her guitar, intent only on the music, on where her fingers must go. He watched and listened. “Why talk. If you do not listen to me? Running away…”
Nikki Longmuir Jul 2013
I give my body up
To anyone that asks,
Just to have 30 minutes
Of artificial love unmasked

But when it’s all done,
It’s over too soon,
My face plunges my hands,
Tears turn my fingers to prunes

Like buzzing bees in a hive
They can’t seem to sit still,
On the edge of the loveseat paralyzed
With a defiled heart shaped box to fill

I’ve sampled it all
I’ve tried different styles,
I even bought new makeup
I toned and ran extra miles,
I bought myself new clothes
Hung the old with a noose,
Even with pained effort
They forever call me “loose”

So I starve, I suffer,
I pull food from my stomach,
I beg johns to stay but they leave,
After paying the hotel check

With nothing left I stare
Out into the dangerous distance,
With ripped, lace underwear
That to him, didn’t make a difference

Tomorrow I will try again
To make myself a debutante,
Easy gaunt bodies, and shiny hair,
Isn’t that what all guys want?

— The End —