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Luiz 1h
Part 1

She was drowning in the sea
of a blissful fantasy

kissing, licking and gracefully
******* on a candy coated neck
when she came up for air
and involuntarily whispered:

"Oh my ***!, I never
thought you could
make me so happy, Baby..."

Part 2

As her eyes rolled back
with the pleasure
from the succion
on her neck,
she softly murmured:

"Sometimes, the best man
for the job is a hot *** *****
like me! Keep *******, Baby!"

Luiz D. Syphre
THEM - L
An M&M Edition series
These tears I cry aren’t meant for you
They are for the girl I long to return to
The girl with dreams that carried her away
To ideas of travel and love and to change the world,
but something led me astray
My heart demands that I return to that little girl ,who I held so close.
My heart screams and tugs, unable to ignore, who I was once before.
I’m taking my power back, the power of a girl.
I take her hand and make sure to never leave her behind.
I wrote this as my soul somehow needed to share to the world what I feel other women feel at times too
Lexie 3d
She was an origami girl
Something you could fold in the palm of your hands
Slip into your pocket
And just forget about

She was a paper mache girl
Someone you could wrap in layers and layers
Until you couldn't tell what was truly underneath
You would leave her out to dry
But the sun warmth never touched her center

She was a paper airplane girl
Something you set free to the air
Falling again and again
Until you lost interest

She was a paper doll girl
Lacking depth and emotion
Pressed flat between pages
Just an open book
For you to tell a story you thought was fitting

She was not paper
And she was not string
She was a just girl
Oh what a beautiful thing
Love yourself, even if it is just for today
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Thought circles
Boys cry
But men think they shouldn’t
Girls cry
But women sob

Boys play
But men joke
Girls play
But women are serious

Boys are real
Among themselves
But men pretend
Girls pretend
Among themselves
But women fake it

Boys form
But men aspire to become
Girls wanna be
But women aspire to be better

Boys like
Men fall in love
But men play with your feelings
Girls crush
Women love
But women love too hard

Boys love competition
But Men love power
Girls love Friendship
But Women love Class

Boys hate chores
But men can now cook
Girls love chores
But Women now do more than chores

Boys dream,
But men achieve
When boys lie, girls believe
But women are those that make the men
Women they make the will to bend

Boys are young can do no wrong
Men are calculated, they know what’s wrong
Girls are young they make heads turn
Women are smart could make kingdoms burn
Emily Dec 3
Bubble gum and vanilla perfume is what I thought of when I dreamed about girls.
When I imagined myself with my own girl gang. Like in the movies.
Heart shaped sunglasses and matching bikinis.

It is so much better than that.

It is spilled wine and ripped jeans.
Laughter that makes your ears ring and smiles that ache by the end of the night.
She’s rubbing the ashes she spilled into my comforter, and I don’t even care.
She’s drinking a ***** soda out of a mug and stealing a pair of my sweatpants.
She’s teaching me how to properly curl my hair.

Every boy is unworthy.
She gets more beautiful with each passing day.
Intricacies buried deep inside her.
Little pieces of her uncovered bit by bit.

She paints.
She writes poetry.
She has a green thumb.
She likes her coffee black with a pinch of cinnamon.
She prefers foggy weather to sunny.
She loves foreign films.

Only friends who love deeply can fight so harshly.
Only girls who know each other inside and out can wreak such havoc with their words.
Roots tangled together beneath the ground.
Howls that harmonize under the light of the moon.

When I imagined myself with my own girl gang I didn’t realize it’d be a pack of wolves, starving for life and love.
Julia Mae Dec 1
you're not pretty
like all of these other girls that you see
on the tv and in magazines
but who you are
is so unique
more than those other girls
could ever hope to be
Graphite looks nice in the light,
Like stars in a pitch black night,
Words popping like popcorn...

I’m torn;
Why do the girls over there laugh at me?
Am I like some comedy act—but free?
Perhaps it’s my face
Or the way I like to trace
These words on this table,
These little meaningless fables
Flowing straight from my mind,
Only to be left behind
On this starry night sky,
Installed by some guy
That nobody knows
Or remembers when he goes...
my ankle doesn't seem to hurt anymore
i think it's because I stopped running after you
but i haven't tried it out yet
maybe I shouldn't? just in case it might still hurt.
i won't
Zywa Nov 28
In the bend of the brook

my mind sinks away
between sun spots of gliding
water and suspended shades

of green. Nothing is floating
against the current. Under
the water level, I feel

space for secrets
shelters of what
will be the future, maybe

My friends light candles
and will talk on the way back
about the boys on the benches

but I prefer to sit quietly
under the sacred oak trees
in the bend of the brook
Chapel the Sacred Oak on the Beerze
(in 1400 the statue of Mary was stolen from the oak, but it drifted back upstream)

Collection “Webgarden”
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