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chloe fleming Dec 2017
Your beauty is not the reason for your existence,
Rather, it is your soul that stirs winds within you,
Guiding you further into your own tornado.
No, my dear, your beauty is only a fraction of the person that you are
With the rest conniving and gloriously consuming all who listen
Incubus, I call you, luring in those who seek satisfaction from broken parts.
Tempt me,
with all the cracks in your heart.
Nichole Jul 2017
I encounter him
When I'm sleeping
I thought it was a dream
That I'm just lusting
Its incubus
He's dangerous
****** ******* with him
to feed his sin
Johnnyqu33r Oct 2016
He's a cosmopolitan queen,
He's content on his knees,
He feeds from the screams,
and the souls he redeems.

He's got a complex mind,
He appreciates the grind,
He always takes his time,
A master of his crimes.

He's simple but complex,
He's an incredible wreck,
He whispers on your neck,
And answers to your beck.

He's a cosmopolitan queen,
He'll bring you to your knees,
He'll infiltrate with ease,
and he'll take what he needs.
It's fall, what's better than a ****** demon?
Àŧùl Sep 2016
Separated from you,
I still find you as my Succubus.

Disconnected from me,
You still find me as your Incubus.

The demons of our egos,
Far more powerful than the desires.
My HP Poem #1141
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Sep 2016
Dreams should be sweet & serene,
But our dreams are not so clean,
She dreams Incubus assaulting her,
I get the Succubus assaulting me,
Her Incubus has my face & voice,
And my Succubus has her face & voice,
Both of us have been in this soup.
My HP Poem #1140
©Atul Kaushal
Àŧùl Aug 2016
But I don't need you to be my Eve.
Just be my Succubus,
For Succubus was my first wife.
I am really in need of your love.
I miss those moments spent in heat.
Just be my divine angel again,
For I will otherwise long for you forever.

I don't want to be the incubus that haunts,
Or forces you to bed in your nightmares.
Yes I want to be your soulmate who takes you to paradise every single night.
I miss your excited whispers in my ears.
Yes I want to perish with you,
Even if the days of my life were few.

I am ready to give it up for my children,
If we procreate them in our moments wild.
Our son will be immortal, so will be the daughter,
My HP Poem #1118
©Atul Kaushal
Kagami Oct 2015
A drug like lust,
Pinning me at the wrist,
Scratches on my thighs.

Love me.

Tossing me into the water,
Watching me drown in
Desire?
Passion.

Bruises on my heart and body,
Curiosity is ecstasy,
Painfully hard to dictate.

Simplistic and forbidden.
K D Kilker May 2015
I changed in the night
after two years of happiness
or something like it
one year of purgatory
I wanted you when you didn't want me.
Now it feels like the end of a dream,
the breaking of a spell,
the beginning of a reality.
Visited in the night by a thing, a thought,
a girl who wanted to travel, you could picture her looking ethereal,
worldly,
writing books in strange places, happy
married--but not to you
living--but not this life.
Not in a town where dreams go to die.
But as I made myself closer, I was trapped instead, bound eternally.
I'm in love--but not with you.
Visited in the night by a man
that I wanted who didn't exist.
Because I should have ceased years ago.
People look younger when they died in a past life.
Do I think about it?
Every day--visited by a secret, a sad truth
I can't.
But visions can carry you away.
"Two years of happiness" would actually put me at twenty--this may have been written in the small TV room upstairs while I lived with my friend. I feel like I used the term incubus (a *** demon) because I had imagined a future where I traveled and wrote and felt guilty for thinking about it while I moved down a different path with my fiance. I also felt guilty for wanting both--dreaming about the future or feeling optimistic about my current path--because I was never supposed to live to be this old and have to make these decisions. Years ago, I had bought an old dictionary of superstitions from a thrift store and read that people who look young had died young in a previous life.

(Coming of Age - K. D. Kilker) Years of handwritten poetry and stories will be typed for safekeeping online following a technological failure in 2013. I am currently twenty-one and the pieces range from the age of fourteen to nineteen. They may not be good, but they are revealing.
Sam Knaus Nov 2014
I carry my doubt, worry, fears out to your truck but leave them in the passengers seat.
For this moment, I am alive.
I gaze out towards the orange and brown trees, tinted with a red as deep as the love I feel for you. Walk towards the wind, my hair rustles with the leaves and you laugh as my cheeks turn pink from the cold. Sit out on a dock and overlookinh a lake straight from a painting, I am alive. I can see the green horizon and the reflections of branches in the water, over hills and under grass, if you look just a little farther, you'll find you and me, because we're so alone in this moment and I can finally breathe because I feel so free. I lean into the wind, fall back against the dock and sigh, a smile on my face, the lake looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue plane. I am alive. I am breathing, and for once I don't hate the fact that I am. This sno-berry tea carries the taste of longing that, if elsewhere, I can only get from your lips, and I love it. I am an addict itching for a fix of release from reality and instead of my normal methods, I found it in you.
Feat. "I Wish You Were Here"- Incubus; "The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue plane."
ryn Oct 2014
Are we fated to dance to the same tune alone in our separate universes?
Is it true that we must silently keep to our preordained curses?

Are we destined to swoon at the beauty of the moon at differing time slots?
Why were we given invisible ink to connect our lives' dots?

Must it be that our lives revolve around the whims of the sun?
Isn't it ludicrous that we won't see the intricate webs we've spun?

Was it the plan that we exist only in our minds and hearts?
Why do we have to tolerate starting when the other's ending and end at the other's starts?

Has it been written that we can only afford to infinitely chase each others heartbeats?
Was it foretold that we're trapped in a singular notion that never really fits?

Is the game set as such that we can never emerge as winners?
How is it that the ocean was made out of our tears that flowed from rivers?

Why is it that with our entirety we believe but do not know?
What's the reason for the path made clear but we're too afraid to go?

What does it entail to possess the very least but yet you covet it the most?
How do you pride yourself in something but not allowed to boast?

Why do we frantically scramble to piece together jagged shards?
Can't we just play this blasted deck of lousy cards?

Is it destiny or cruelty to have found then lost?
Why does it seem absurd that we have all its takes but can't afford the cost?

Is it the thoughts that **** or the emotions that debilitate?
Is it the challenges we take on or the curveballs we anticipate?

Why bother when sheer folly is all it seems to be?
Why tarry when the heart is free and the mind is ready?

Is it ridiculous to have found myself still very bothered?
Is it wrong to question fate that had always bound us tethered?

Why is the good always bad and the bad becomes worse?
Is it true that the harder we fight, the deeper we immerse?

Has life turned to be but sad little rhetorics?
Are we but performers on stages coerced into theatrics?

Is it time for me to surface this one-man submarine?
Will it be so that if I do, my journey would then begin...?
A host of rhetorical questions from my older writes...

"Surface this one-man submarine"  isn't mine... It's Brandon Boyd's.
Taken off Incubus' " Love Hurts"
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