Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Addictively sweet
Soaking wet
Moist tongue
Doused fervor
Brewing storm
At her engorged fruit
Very slowly
I rise
Of my body
Lying still
Inside the box
I move up
For a glimpse
Of the body
So empty inside
Sans me...
The seize
The hold
The grasp
Ain't easy
On my passion
My desire
Of you
Inked Quill Mar 14
My body’s a fire
To be burned
With your caressing gaze
All teased
Nuzzled fantasy
Makes me
A bad girl
Eager to please
Your ***** sensitivity
Tie me
Choke me
Tell me Daddy
How will you
Discipline me today
Inked Quill Jan 30
In my dreams
I see him
Red palms
In front of him
Slithery skin
From his back
Floating above
Taking a toll
On me
Like **** hounds
And destroys
My soul
Yet I’m not afraid
Of him
But humanity
That’s worse…
I do not love you like the ocean,

I’m much too scared of drowning.

Instead I love you like a battered paperback,

small enough to pocket

on walks from dorm rooms to lecture halls.

I love like the blanket my housemate bought me,

too pink to be polite

but a soft cucoon against my skin

warm on cold winter nights.

I love you like anything that can be forgotten

tucked away or to one side,

but hangs around in the quiet moments

still very much alive.

I do not love you like life itself,

but I love you a little like breath.

In the same way that I do not think about it,

in the same way that to not would be nonsense

in the same way that I don’t know how to stop

without the pressure in my chest building

to a point where I think I might shatter me pieces.

I suppose I love you a little like breathing.

I do not love you like the ocean though.

With you I have never been afraid of drowning.
Elder D Anthony Nov 2018
Detached from the tree and
momentarily from the world;
what does the leaf witness?

One already so dead, dry, devoid;
is resentful?
One would think not.
One does not need resentment.

One falling leaf needs not,
the cries of man and his children below.
One falling leaf needs not,
the chirping fowl above.

Detached from limb and life and
momentarily the world;
One needs only
a longer eternity not to need.
Inked Quill Oct 2018
It’s encroaching
Stifling my breath
Like cold gates
At the mouth
That vicarious grip
Of distorted desires
Trapped inside
Playing hide & seek
Like a childhood friend
Or am I just having
A fever dream…
Inked Quill Oct 2018
Every time
I’m asked
To obey you
I do
‘Cz obedience makes me
Feel more
& more pleasure
In the games
We play
& the blindfold
Sets in me
Nervous expectations
Of the sweet sparks
Sending through my body
When you birch me...
...Your Girl
Shannon Aug 2018
The only time in an ordinary life that dying seems beautiful is when you are a teenager. That beautiful time where your skin is tightly wrapped around you like Saran Wrap and your mind believes every tear you push out of your eyes matters, counts towards something. You cry because your heart got broken? That matters, put it in your portfolio of beautiful broken pieces. You cry because you did not make the team/the grade/the cut/the audition/the clique/the bus … all of these things matter when your book is full of hauntingly empty pages. What nobody tells you is that once you fill your book with these small slights, you have less and less pages left for the big stuff that’s coming. The big stuff that should really fill your book. By the time you have something to write in your big book of beautiful broken pieces, you’ve filled it with so much **** and nonsense that there is nothing left to say.
I have nothing for you then.
Stop readingStop mother ******* reading.
I have nothing.
I am ******* empty.
I have nothing.
This was the beginning of a short story I am writing. I came back to it a bit later and think it would make a great essay.
Next page