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Odd Odyssey Poet Dec 2024
Do your eyes still traverse the corridors of memory, like a VCR
rewinding its cherished tapes? Capturing your reflection in the
mirror—still radiant, unadorned, and unapologetic. I still find
myself consumed by jealousy for that bathroom mirror,
privileged to witness you from every corner of your room.

Consumed by the sinister allure of your skin’s shadowy depths,
a brilliance emerges that rivals the most exquisite treasure.
My dear, you continue to weave a tapestry of uncertainty around
me—thoughts hovering like spectres above, even as you attempt
to mask the passage of time with a new hue in your hair.

Yet, your capricious emotions betray you, revealing strands of silver
that ravenously consume my heart, and each sigh a testament to
your power. You ought not to linger in the recesses of my mind,
yet these last seven days have only intensified my fascination,
leaving me utterly weak.

I cast my laments to the skies, my spirit weeping profusely – the
cascade of your lip’s whisper, the tempestuous tides of your form,
the fortress of towering trees echoing the curve of your legs – how
can I possibly avert my gaze from your enchanting eyes? You have
transformed my heart into a crime scene, slaying me piece by piece,
all for the sake of uniting with you.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2024
I’ve got:
Horns for thoughts; and feelings that are for the vague
Glass for eyes, their tears are just old memories of dreams
A nose exhaust, blowing hot smoke to cool off the engine
A beard of grass; hoping the waters of time helps it grow

I’ve got:
A void for a smile; a darkness that quietly hides away in the pit
Quiet lips made out of violin strings; a humble refrain to play
A mighty sword for words, with a bold voice so cutthroat
And each breath is ******; being an inch of one’s lost vanity

I’ve got:
Wrists like a heavy grey cloud; a sleeve that can easily bleed
Fingers made of needles; an unfortunate hold pinned to the present
Denim for skin; the dyed hues of generations stuck in my genes
Moss for a heart; a love only by the surface- no seeds to grow

I’ve got:
Bones made out of dust; can’t clean the stain of sin by myself
Ginger in my soul; aromatic- filled with a vigour of liveliness
But this body is so meagre; so eager to find new means to grow
But I don’t own a piece of it, at all- I’ve borrowed it for a time,
An agreement with life; as sleep is the middleman and death
Is the Great debt collector…
Odd Odyssey Poet Jan 2022
Blossoming cheeks;
sweet flower kisses,
and butterfly hints,
of wings flaring careless words on lips.

The space of heaven;
between those two stars,
of both day and night,
And with devilish thick
structured thighs;
there's a resting lust in between.
None of which,
I dare open the gates as wide.

Bare chest; full of development,
and a warmth to my resting head.
Fast asleep on the pillows;
and silk smooth skin, as matching sheets.

Bellowing down the centre;
to a circle within a circle.
As with the precious silver of a belly ring.

Dark as the night without stars;
flowing downstream;  is her fine hair.
Covering a neck of amber;
scented in perfumes of a spring's desire.
And a shape biteable by first eyes;
as with the passions of a bodied pear.

Towards a great sized past;
and truly a large behind.
A middle line of strong metal,
as love's swordlike spine.

Tanned leather,
running young of two calves.
And the heels that strut the purest intentions;
of the feet of doves.

Perfect is a stranger;
but still a stranger on their own.
Never to have met,
perhaps of my descriptions,
the individual would show.
She told me that if she was anything
She was a desperate attempt
Of a human life form
She told me that she never felt sanity
Never felt normal
But she told me that her desperation
Was just because she wanted to fit in
It wasn't her fault
She was the daughter of the guardian
'I just want my story to be told,
Truthfully indeed,'
She said to me, as I sipped my tea
'Truthful, I can try,
But honey, story telling is based on lies,'
I smiled as I finished my brew
And walked out planning the death of you.
I have a name for this shapeshifter now. Her name is Ruby. If you have any thoughts on what I can do to make Ruby a proper shapeshifter, and a good character, please contact me via this website. Please read the rest of my descriptions
He has dark hair
Almost like the night
Dark enough to seem as though it was black
Even though it was blue shining bright
He is completely different in the day
Saying things he would never say
His mouth is a cruel curve
Because everything he says is absurd
His eyes a gleaming blue
To match his night-like hair
He isn't you
I wish you were here
Writing descriptions for a book that I am writing! There will be many more to come!
Kalliope Jan 2019
Kay
Perpetually lost
Figuratively stuck
Exhaustingly overworked
Disgustingly underpaid
Literally confused
Effortlessly cliche
Beautifully me
Sometimes it be like that
Dark waves crash against a nearby rock,
as I sit and watch the salt litter every inch.
Small droplets find their way to my skin,
and soon paint patterns across my canvas.
One that has not been blank for so long --

instead,
this is not the first time.

My miles of skin crave for your touch,
but you are gone.
I cannot bring myself to forget
how your eyes used to trail my body.

We’d sit by that little waterfall and wait
for the mist to carry its way to us,
leaving us wanting more.

As we sat in our little patch of green,
we would count the stars.
The faint feeling of your finger,
finding its way to my hand --

and a face that never leaves my head.
A nose strong and slightly crooked,
like the tree branches creating a canopy
of leaves above --
hiding us from the moon’s light
and the shadows of the night.

And lips,
moulding perfectly with mine --

like two lone puzzle pieces,
finally finding their home,
amongst the jagged ones
surrounding them.
A time so perfect,
that flowed so nicely --

that I long for again someday,
like the waves in autumn,
striking this rock beside
me.
Hannah Christina Jun 2018
Because a thing may seem cliche won't mean it isn't right.
Warm sunbeams, drumbeat thunder, and the clash of dark and light.
Or just because it's overused, don't say it can't be true.
Old words and phrases well describe my burning love for you.
A A Mar 2018
An old lion sits on the balcony writing a letter to his lover describing the moment he first saw her; he uses the moon as his lamplight as he murmurs the next line.
"I thought: you are the best drawing I've ever seen..
The most captivating painting,
Most sensual of all the sculptures."
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