Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Abbigail Jan 2014
There's something special about someone
you can lie awake in bed with all day,
Seeing you with your knotted hair and morning face
and still thinking you're someone worth kissing.

You can find it in the way they lie in any position at all
as long as it's wrapped around your body,
The way that they ignore every responsibility they'd said was so important
because laughing with you, your face buried in their neck,
is the single thing that surpasses everything else the world demands of them.

You’ve each held others before, the same way.
Limbs intertwined as many ways as can be found,
touching as much of their skin with yours as your shapes will allow.
You've explored the unknown inches of someone's body and
felt the chill down your spine when they did the same.
You’ve held others before,
but that doesn’t make it any less spectacular.

His legs feel different against yours than any you’ve felt before.
His lips are a new taste, a new shape,
a new, original kind of magic.
He makes different sounds as he falls asleep
and sometimes he narrates his dreams.

His face takes a different shape when he’s about to kiss you,
and a different shape yet when he only wishes he could.

His hands find new resting places on your frame
separate from those anyone else has discovered
and he’s found new words, still, to send
fluttering into the pit of your stomach
and color your cheeks a shade
that you pray he can’t see in the dark.

There’s something special about someone
you can lie in bed with at night,
Listening to your stories that never come out right,
if they ever come out at all,
and still trying to convince you that
you’ve got something worthwhile to say.

There’s something special about someone
who holds potential to make you feel a new feeling.
Whose mystery still intrigues you
and whose company still satisfies you,
Whose stories you still care to hear
and whose lips are still an enticing thought.


And he’s clearly insane,
But you’re really happy that
with your knotted hair and morning face,

**he still thinks you’re someone worth kissing.
Ariana Sweeney Apr 2014
What’s the point of being perpetually safe,
Wrapped up in a bubble of faux perfection?
Where is your sense of adventure?
Your insatiable desire to search for what to love;
Be it people, places, things,
Or intangible pieces of yourself you’ve yet to meet.
Where is your spontaneity,
Your yearning to flee and face every lost corner of yourself?
Security?
Scoff at it.
That isn’t what you want.
You want dreams.
You want a sharp intake of breath,
The quickening of heart,
Sweat.
You want wonder and lust and to get lost
And to be someone who sees themselves
And smiles.
You want desperation
And fear
And heartbreak
Because those are the only things giving you the chance to grow.
You want self-discovery and enlightenment
And to readily await the next day in excitement
Rather than just trying to “get it over with”.
You want a reason to live, and you can’t buy that.
You can’t buy it.
You search and scrounge,
Beg and bleed
Until you’re reduced to ashes,
Until the world becomes saturated with all you’ve left behind.
You earn it.
You live it.
You love it.
You are it.
You’re passion,
Pleasure,
Purpose
Priceless
All in one.
You’re finally you.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.

Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
JoBe Arenas Apr 2014
I just want to tell You
       I still         You
Though it's been         years since
I still feel the same

I try to dismiss the feeling
   But when we            like never before
then you told me "               " the first time
           I was so           I couldn't reply

My memories cut out the          parts
I'm          holding on to the memories
Maybe I'm just still           with the memory
And not You

Dedicated to whomever You is
Silver Lining Apr 2014
A buzzing in the air
excitment
We're finally leaving
lets go already
Just another hour..
We've been waiting all year
All the saving finally paying off
It's here. It's here.
So tune up those strings.
*We're here to play
After workin all year, doing countless fundraisers, it's finally here. Orchestra tour. Here I come California.
Joe Haydon Mar 2014
Romance is not love - they are different things.
Romance is a subtle gesture, the turn of a head, the twinkle in an eye, the electric charge between two people that sparks on contact. Romance is desire, seduction, passion and lust. It is restrained, spontaneous and exciting. It is not on the menu of a fancy restaurant, or on the receipts of expensive gifts. Romance is found in little things, special things, and it is far too elusive and precious to be bought or sold - whatever the price.
Romance is not love, but if tended to and nourished, romance will take root, grow, bud, blossom and bloom. And when it does, love will lie in it's petals.
One Valentines day I got cross with everything trying to tell me what romance is, and what love is, and how to get it; how to buy it, and how much its worth. I thought all of that was rather missing the point - in my experience at least.

— The End —