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Cheyenne 10h
(I wrote a new poem and it really means something to me so I thought I would share it.)


I want you to make love to me,
But not for why you think.
It’s not just for lust,
Or just a feeling my body craves.

I want you to make love to me
Because I crave to feel all of your skin
Pressed against my own bare flesh.

I want you to make love to me
To calm all of the thoughts in my head
That try to make me doubt your pure intentions.

I want you to make love to me
And speak beautiful words from your perfect lips,
So they can drift into my ears like music.

I want you to make love to me
Because I long for the light touch,
And kisses that will come before the fire.

I want you to make love to me,
While I tell you all these rough fantasies,
But want this at the very same instant.

I want you to make love to me
As I admire just how handsome you are,
Through the light shining in through the window.

I want you to make love to me
So I will be held and taken care of
Once you have ruined me in the best ways.

I want you to make love to me
Because I want you to understand
Just how much love I will always have for you.

I want you to make love to me
For all of these alternate reasons.
But I have no words to speak to make you realize what I mean.
So I wrote you this stupid poem instead.


I love you
I don't know what I feel.
I don't know who,
or what I like.
I just know,
that I do not feel
the embers,
I am blind to the spark -
The light

I think back on that time,
To that shallow kiss
I know that it was warm.
I know that it was nice.
Hell, I was on cloud nine.
But the moment passed.
And the butterflies were...sparse.

Was it him or me?
Was I just too slow?
Or he too fast for me?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I just...
don't know.

Three or four years
have gone since then,
And I still wonder why
Then I remember -
That wasn't the only time

There had been others before
We had courted,
And I was always wishing
I were elsewhere
Trying to spring forth
All of those feelings -
To lay my heart bare
...but they just weren't there

I still feel like the moth
With no flame
My heart,
In a state of decay
Now and then there is a stutter -
A flutter
Of something
I try to hold it -
But it just flies away

You may as well smear me
Across that windowpane

There are terms now
for what I could be,
The letters "A" and "D"
might feel like me
But I won't say a thing -
Not a peep
Not 'til I'm sure,
Until I'm really sure,
of what makes my heart truly sing

There's a pressure,
a quiet, constant hum
To know
who and what I am

They ask when
Not if I'll marry,
Bare children -
And start a family
Well let's just say,
That I'll not tarry,
To find a way
Out of the charade

Motherhood never spoke to me
It seems a cage -
Agony
I've only ever wished
to be free
Free to inspire,
To create
To ponder
Free to roam,
To dream
To learn
If only I knew the secret
For what makes me burn

But maybe it's okay
Not to know
Maybe I'm still blooming—
Unfolding slow, unseen
In the dark, I find
I do not cower
Instead, I glow -
I, the moonflower.

I will not blaze,
In the ways they expect
I will not leave entrails in the sky
But I still reach -
Only quiet,
and deliberate -
For the stars in the night
For why
Late-blooming questions and quiet reaching.
A reflection on identity, uncertainty, and learning to grow in my own way.
Love is.........
affectionate,
compassionate,
nothing is no
better than it,
kindness,
fondness,
tenderness,
a beautiful feeling
that we can't resist,
Love is pure, and
does not come amiss,
a happy feeling of
a beautiful bliss,
a heartwarming
feeling that
genuinely exist,
within your mind,
within due time,
It will come
to surface, and
It will be just fine
Love is,
Love is,
LOVE IS,
to me..........
THIS IS WHAT LOVE IS.........


B.R.
Date: 7/14/2025
Kindness is a light we share,  
A gentle hand in times of need,  
A quiet solace when hearts despair.

It blooms in moments small and rare,  
A whispered word and a thoughtful deed,  
A spark of love beyond compare.

In every soul, it finds its way,  
A bridge to heal, a wound to mend,  
A gift that brightens every day.
Gentle breeze,
Softness that touches ears.
It comes and goes.
It does what shows.
It is mutual.
It brings scents of sweetness,
Or brings clouds of death.
But to tell why,
You may hold your breath.
Do not worry,
It is not what’s due.
Love in patience,
Will always- walk back to you.
My honest opinion on hate?
Love it!
Smother it with compassion!
Being blindingly gentle
And barbarically kind!
Make love to it! Or,
**** it!
I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.
In Defense of Gentleness
This poem explores the trauma of witnessing abuse and the desire to break cycles of harm. The term 'submissive' is used not to endorse traditional gender roles or power imbalances, but to reflect a personal commitment to treating gentleness and softness with the love, respect, and kindness they deserve. It is a call to honor the dignity of all individuals, regardless of their nature or behavior, and to hold abusers accountable for their actions.
Gideon Mar 8
I crave soft touches and gentle words.
Reassuring hands holding mine in the
darkness of this world. Sweet humanity
cradling my soul as I no longer fear for
the present. I wish for tender care given
by rough hands, silky hands, and every
hand in between. Love isn’t shown in
bravery or strength. It is shown in kind-
ness and compassion. Love is as bright
and soft as a full moon on a starry night.
Gideon Mar 8
I miss what I never had.
Gentle reassurance and soft, loving encouragement.
Gentleness was not written in my mother’s movements
like a ballet dancer’s practiced pirouettes.
Her movements were more like my handwriting.
Jagged and coarse. Discordant and unrythmic.
I wonder though, were her movements intentional?
Were they truly meant to hurt and scare?
Or were they an absentminded reflection
of her own hurt and scars?
irinia Jan 10
there in the land of the wind
the grass would like to be as tall as you
the salt of the earth would be ringing,
resonant with the laughter of tears
perhaps everything we are
has to conceive a symbolic death
to deliver ourselves

in the embryo of words there is
such a gentleness, a true prophecy:
language would begin to forget itself
we meet in this language without words
like two beings from the end of the world
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