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Styles Jun 17
The air tainted
With the scent of lavender
Walls painted with mud

On her back
She looked down from above
His unshaved skin tickles her thighs
She sighs
Word unspoken
Give a clear directive
Untamed
she became
while he ravished her
Satisfaction she over-came
all over the furniture
Styles Jun 17
I am salivating
over your curves
The way they bend in all the right ways
It makes me so stiff
I wish, I could just slide my hands all over her
Listen to you exhale as we go skin to skin
tasting the taste of your tongue
After your delicious lips let me in  
our mouth enveloping each other  
with so much anticipation
we quiver as the nerves subside
as the moment sets in
sushii Dec 2019
spikes and chains
i enjoy the pain
frilly lace
and satin space

you’ve got quite a pretty face
especially when it twists into a scowl
when you put me in my place
rgz May 2019
I just went to bed
left you on Read
I did it on purpose to mess with your head

Laid in gossamer sheets
tinged sickly red
with the blood of words
that went unsaid
hard to deny
who made the bed
who caught whom
in whose spinnerets

Distraught with rotting thoughts
locked in my own stocks
stalking twisted halls
the clocks have all stopped

Stuck in my head
kicking myself
with broken knees
and buckled legs
struggling to free myself
from myself

Entombed by one I never could deceive
darkness abounding when all that I need
is to catch the right light
and stop trying to fight
Oh, what a tangled web we weave
The prompt was to use Walter Scott's "..tangled web.." line in a poem, this was what came out.
meekah Jan 2018
i imagine you lying
alone
in that too-small bed
with your blankets
(that i hate)
strewn across the floor
warmed by the thought
that you are loved
while i lie
alone
in my too-big bed
covered in blankets
(that you’ve never seen)
freezing
because i am not
Martin Narrod Jan 2018
Bumble

How do you decide what to take from a burning building? Objects? A ring? A Journal? Your father? Your daughter? Your grandmother? Your birth certificate? How does a child decide who lives and who stays? One day there’s a fire, and it’s your house, it starts in your room, you can tell yourself you’ve already packed a bag, but who can say where it is?

Since I was fourteen *** has let me feel like I was alive, I always thought that great *** meant somebody cried, that somebody got hurt, that if you weren’t hiding from somebody else than you had to be hiding from yourselves. That’s when I pulled out an old notebook and began reading back the lips of lovers, running my fingers over their handwriting like brushing my mouth over the raised ink of my lover’s tattoos. Who decides when everything you call your life uproots itself and walks away from you one morning while you’re still laying in bed? Who decides when every rule and mannerism you’ve become acclimated to shifts and changes and the way you felt anger is now the way you feel fright, the way you felt lust is now what you call sadness, the way you lived in happiness is now what you know to be all on your own, and what you told yourself was love is now nothing at all.

There is a bed with the sheets nearly hanging off, the blankets lying on the floor, three pillows colors you’ve never seen. This bed is in a room you’ve never walked into, in a house you’ve passed a million times, in towns you’ve visited but only to top off your gas tank or looked at while riding through it on a train. It’s in this room, on this bed where your whole life is unbound, it’s here where the cover on the book of your life falls off and disappears into a story of someone else’s, and while you still bite your dedication page as your own, the publisher’s page, the dedication page, and even the title page are all altogether gone, and no matter how old you are or how quickly you move, nor how attentive or well prepared you might be, there is nothing you can do except curl yourself into an ammonite and lock up everything you’ve ever claimed to be yours, light your candles and cigarettes, and put a record on the record player. There is no place like home that couldn’t become yours anymore.

You drink hard liquor from the bottle until you can touch the faces that you’ve lost, you can turn the hot water up in the shower until you don’t hear their voices anymore. There’s nothing like the sound of quiet that peels off the skin, or the sound of loud music blaring into your ears that you can play if you need to hold it back in.

You can **** the war and hate and heartache out of the brains and legs and holes of someone you barely know, but in a burst of snowy sunlight you’re only adding numbers to a score that heeds no winners at all. There’s no one that never shivers, no one that has never gotten splinters, there’s no one who is never been sick, there’s only the one’s who know what life is, and the one’s that lie about it. Only when you’ve lost your head can you see with your ears. I’ve found faces in my underwear that run fierce with rivers of tears. This is the waste that makes waste, this is the nerves that end nerves. This is the patch I placed on the moon, and the cold that stings every part of the body I know.

There is a bed somewhere, there is a town of people waiting to **** the person who lives in that room. There is the fire that consumes the bed, there is a child waiting there that’ll someday have to choose.
Bibek Nov 2017
Revenge itches, where love never reaches,
It itches in the shared cups,                          
                in the shared beds
                in the shared bodies,
But never, in the shared hearts,
For these days, they are not shared

All love is today,
Is a folkdance in a folkworld,
With folks one will never truly love,
But pretend to be loving, Living
How lively!

The roads, the parks, the brothels,
All flood with bodies, not souls
For the vessels are empty,
staring at each other's empty faces,
Prizing empty words to one another,
And mocking anybody different,
How lively!

And in such fragrance too,
Some bear to protest,
The lively call them dead,
In which case, dying is more beautiful
To every human existence that points out the vague fullness and life in it
Mysidian Bard Jul 2017
There's one less set of footprints
upon my bedroom floor,
there's half as many clothes
behind the closet door.

There's a lonely set of arms
that used to embrace its pair,
there's one less person here
but one more vacant chair.

There's a heart that was once overflowing
and bursting from the soul,
but it seems that just a half
can claim the very whole.

Somethings can be mended,
but never replaced by another.
In empty beds we learn
how to live without each other.
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