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The oaks are stricken by a serious illness
They dry up after having let go
Into the glow of a sump at sunset
A whole throng of generals' heads
Fingers brush upon skin, So soft and delicate. Let it linger.

Eyes closed, My heart races as your lips touch mine. Let it linger.

Your hands curved around my face. Eyes locked and no words need to be said. Let it linger.

Body's pressed together, Passion electrified. Let it linger.

The time fades out, There is no one in the world but us. Please just, Let it linger.
I think you must have
Pried open my jaw
And slipped your butterflies
Down my throat
Because when ever
I hear your voice
I feel their wings
Fluttering
Inside of me

Trying to get
To you
 Jul 2014 Sophie Grey
Vivian
reading ****** erotica at the
dinner table, dim lit,
dusk dreaming of you far too late
in the evening for thoughts
to remain chaste.
Drake's voice laps at my ears,
waves beating upon shore, pulsing:
it's your's.
my chapped lips pressed against
the base of your palm;
the gesture is
comforting, a reminder I
can absolve myself when
I am with you,
that I do not belong to myself:
it's your's.
I awake alone,
snared in sweat-soaked sheets; you are
long gone, not even bothering to
leave a note;
you know I'll be back.
after all,
it's your's.
we all make the main characters
in the stories we write
have blue eyes
if ours are green
brown eyes
if ours are blue
and hazel
if they're grey

just so that
no one can tell

whose secrets
line the pages
in our favourite font
When I close my eyes,
I picture your lies.
Vivid colour, bursts from your mouth,
lies painted by your tongue.
'Work kept you late'
'Traffic was a state'
'You had a headache'
When I open my eyes,
I see you mixing a drink,
I've had time to think
'Do you want one?' you casually ask
I shake my head no, plaster a smile on my face,
lace my fingers together and feign interest.
You suddenly jolt, grasp at your throat,
I sit and wait like a dutiful wife
as you gasp and try to keep your life.
You're out of time my 'darling'
Thallium has been quietly seeping into you,
growing and building inside.
Just like my baby, growing in me, one you'll never see.
Our girl with sapphire eyes
© JLB
13/07/201
 Jul 2014 Sophie Grey
Aoife Teese
i want to feel you
in every breath i breathe
but when i'm around you
i often forget how to
and find myself
breathing you in
by the lungful
butterflies love the blood,
tumbling about in bellies,
whisk it away, the way we pray,
a bird being carried by a breeze,
lifted essence, manifested,
heart shade, finally, at ease,
signal came through,
translated to
sharpened claws,
unclenched jaws -
unthought it all while sober -

  you came as ocean, as breeze,
   as birds, as leaves,
   as hues and blues,
   sunshines and moons,
and you left as you pleased,

    opened my mouth wide to cry for you,
    praise you,
   love you, raise you above
  what I've said in silence,
  unbreak the trust I betrayed in private,

  you came as hearts, as people I've known,
  and stories never told, as whispers,
  as hugs, and as kisses,
  as melodies, repeatedly on my brain, as so,
absent of you,

      I came to know you:


butterflies love the blood,
dying slowly from the greed,
whisk it away, the way I pray,
would ask for your forgiveness,
but I know there is no need,

I feel you in the leaps
of knowing when to regret,
and when to let it be,
summon the tides stronger
aside dying suns, each day,
each night I pray for you to call upon me,
like you did when I was your favourite color,
pray for you to love the me now, and be sure of no other,

so if I adjust the pitch,
tune the sounds to form around
your wisdom, or pretty eyes,
maybe the melody will reach you again,

if not for love,
lost at sea,
then for truth,
and maybe friends we'll be,

no longer eclipsed by rumors
I'm writing and collecting some pieces of mine from previous years for a coming book/film project - this is a piece written to a guy I once knew and loved, we had a falling out because of some things that were said in our community back in 2010. Needless to say, this is not the first time I've written to him or about him - I still love him. And, I miss you, greatly.
 Jul 2014 Sophie Grey
tc
cold
 Jul 2014 Sophie Grey
tc
blue is the coldest colour;
wrap me up in a room of white
and colour me in blue

paint me
&
smear me
all over the walls
until no more white can seep through
Sometimes I am so sick of this town.
I am tired of the way the young people twist and pull time to make it seem that they are years older than what their life conveys, and use large words that they only know half the meaning of,
and oh, "darling" "lovely"
we'll maybe I want to be called *******
"Wild" "untouchable" "agressive"
         "Manipulative" "weird"
                "Fire filled crazy eyed brown haired ***** footed mess of a girl"
          I don't want to be "lovely"
I want you to tell me I am insane, and say it to my face.
I am bored of everyone buying so many large books that they will never read, only look at with some false, faraway nostalgia when their friend comes over with their favorite vinyl.
I don't want to be "sunny"
I am not "happy"
Or "a nice girl"
I am a confusing like a labyrinth of contradiction,
And my emotions move inside me like a hurricane.
I have no time for big words anymore, or long poetic musings.
I want you to scream profanities at the top of your voice, filling your lungs with every bad word in the book.
I want you to etch bold letters in illegal places, I want your words to be direct, quick like fire. Tell me exactly how you feel.
I want you to be clear, straightforward, I have no ******* time to be called "lovely" and asked if I want a cup of tea.
I want *****.
and I want it now.
I don't want to be asked if I am awake at two a.m.,
I want to be asked if I am alive.
If I'm being rude, I want somebody to hold my face still and talk to me while looking at my eyes and say
"You're being a real ******* *****, quit it."
Instead of some *****, with hurt rotting inside of them, digging an early grave due to the inner decay of unspoken words.
I'm tired of people feeling obliged to say Bukowsi was an ***, but a good writer, "but oooh Nerudas good"
I'm sure Neruda could have been a **** too.
Stop pretending to like Shakespeare and really strong coffee and stop trying to force yourself to read really long confusing poetry.
Life isn't supposed to be a metaphor,
It's a ******* moment,
So seize it,
You don't have time to be complicated and fake.
Be raw and real. Be vulnerable and strong.

You are young,
                       You are at the prime of your life,
                      So yell off the ******* rooftops,
And scrape your knees a little bit,
And rebel a little bit,
And get a black eye sometimes,
And get angry a little,
And kiss people with soft lips sometimes,
And tell people exactly what you feel when you feel it,
And make mistakes,
And get drunk,
And do weird things sometimes,
               You are ******* young,
            Stop pretending.
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