remnants of old
conversations mimic forgotten fossils, and I spend my sacred time sifting through the remains, trying to find what exactly we left behind.
If you crave
discovering the pit of fire, shower the floor with your coverings and summon lust under white linen while my hungry eyes make a meal of you. Or, if you fantasize of glowing gates drenched in golden glory, keep silent prayers tucked under your tongue, and don’t let God hear you say my name.
with your sparkling eyes
like crystal **** and tranquilizing words smoother than ****** gliding in innocent veins, you should stay away from dark alleys and promiscuous street corners. above all else, avoid her greedy fingers- She's a user.
I hope the double meaning of the poem is noticeable. enjoy **
"I'll take a bullet for you, just not from you."
haunting frights slur,
convincing a tired, throbbing spine to stumble away from memories lost in the unforgiving happy hours of continuous, cheap brown lager. young, blonde pigtails tap weary broad shoulders and mumble under bubble-gum breath: “strong bones won’t do a corpse any **** good.”
after you left,
anxiety attacks threw my body into a fitful quake- a tremble my bed couldn't suppress. and to ease my aching mind about your absence from within familiar walls, I splattered blood, red crimson chemicals on bitten nails. they shimmer, yet there's still nothing beautiful about this painted lady.
I was painting my nails and thought of you. Again.
when your cold
fingers get the chance, let their haunting abilities of ink dance across the fine white of paper and choreograph what it's like to dance in the vast nothingness of an inevitability you were too curious to prolong.
I hope you'll still love me in the afterlife.
broken record melodiously repeating the same phrase to a constant rhythm: “I love you” “I love you,” And a timid ear eager in pace to halt the sounds of the music’s delicate reassurance
I wish this poem would have never been written, because I can't stomach feeling distant from my lover.
Luminous starshine drips
from the sky and cascades freely toward the mundane world and ,with no hesitation, ceaselessly pours enchanting inspiration into the empty wasteland that is my ink pen.
I've been at a writers block and this is all I've managed to bleed out as of right now.
What a piece
of mental sanctuary your name held before you thought of traveling to the door.