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unmartyred May 2018
There was I, crying on the first time
I touched thy fair skin
I held each golden part of thee
And savored you inch by inch.

There was you, I was crying about, thinking
Where was the respect I should give?
And all the words I should live
Of the vowed protection that you need.

There were we, burning
Fire was within the room
I wilt deal with the heat I don't like
If it is making love with you.
helena alexis Sep 2017
feeling your lips against mine
so soft and angelic
moving in sync
with each other

you taste like fireworks
exploding in my mouth
each kiss feels different

rougher and rougher
our lips attacking
like they are at war

- kissing you
made out w a girl in Mexico over the summer this is ab her
insomniatrical Feb 2017
Sweetness.
Crashing together,
And finally allowing myself to break.
Melting,
Sugar and syrup in my mouth and yours,
A taste that both of us crave.

Embrace,
Security and belonging,
However it does not last in the way we want it.

Snaking,
Reaching underneath,
And an altitude change shakes us
As you tell me I will not fall.
Arms around my waist,
And now I laugh.

"Why do you laugh? What have I done?"

My reply is only
"Your mouth, as sweet as it has ever been,
is on mine, and for as long as I want it to be, it will.
You see, I am not laughing at you, but merely because I have finally received
the subject of my dreams."

He ponders;
And returning to his work I return to mine,
But this time, the sugar is burning into a magnificent taste,
Like glass candy between our tongues,
And raw cane behind our eyes.
Beinghonest Feb 2016
I never knew walls had a purpose,
Until I pushed you against the one in my room - closest to my bed.
I don't know why I didn't just dump your beautiful body onto the bed,
I mean, it wouldn't be the end of the world if "something else"  transpired...
But I guess I lost to my conscience and tried to avoid the sheets that were dying to witness a performance.

I pushed you against the wall,
And I was unable to regret it, because you had this look in your eye,
One that flicked a switch,
And my lust took over.
You surrendered your body,
Allowed me drown you in kisses,
You let me be rough with you,
And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be -
Blame the wall,
I've never made out against a wall before!

You didn't want me to stop,
You were totally unlike yourself,
They way you smiled when I told you that I didn't mean to do what I had done,
The way you threw your arms around my neck and whispered, "That was fun."
You were so unlike you...
But I liked this you a lot,
I liked what this me was doing.
I liked what the wall did to me,
How I instinctively pressed my two hands on both sides of your head, telling you that I wasn't gonna let you go - without uttering a word.
And I knew that our hearts were beating in sync the moment you leaned towards my face,
I knew that we were thinking alike...
I knew that you wanted me,
And you knew that I wanted you,
So we let our tongues do the confessions of love
As they waltzed within the confinement of our mouths
And our lips tickled each other's necks.
The purpose of walls is to make a make out session more intense...

-just being honest
Martin Narrod Nov 2015
The body of a woman's neutral fineness embraces the chords of my steel guitar; laughing about all the points that I've been chasing after. Or just running away- no more for today. Christ, you slipped but lied too many times before, and while you plunge your wrists into your knives, I thought we had a second chance. But that was before, you throw sticks and stones and store your anger in the three fingers of the drink that clinks against our first date when I bought you a 25¢ ring. It was a children's vending machine, that brought me three years of happy things.

I don't want to be fake with you anymore. So go and find your Milky Way. I'm staying dumb, Britni I'm in trouble. All the stakes are different when you are chasing yesterday's killing.

And even the sound of the gunshots don't overcome the voice of the human tongue, in violence and war and all that's abhorred, even the smallest vesper or prayer a whisper of three little words can always be heard, even the faintest whisper can always be heard, as long as the voice that says it is honest and pure.

I was too tight to drive with your hands over my eyes, even in Inverness valley and South Santa Cruz, the wheelbarrow of berries I brought home for supper, ingested in each little bite we cut in half, was the best of the worst time that we ever had. And always we were. In love. In parking lots, playgrounds, at concerts, on airplanes, in bedrooms, custodian closets, laundry mats, and carrying our nap sacks, while we attempted to sleep and hide all night in the Shedd Aquarium. I just should have known better, it'd wouldn't be easy, with you I'm always wrestling sharks with a mirror, your pink sugar perfume from the chains on my wrists ******* across the room. While you didn't trust me I was always at home. Trust isn't love  unless it's enough, unless it's enough to quit drugs. It's symptoms are the same as that of great madnesses.
Sarah Kersey Aug 2015
I waited and waited
for rain to soak this drought
inside my chest

But all I got
was a dry mouth
that felt like
someone was trying
to force
cotton
down my throat

It was just
your tongue.
Styles May 2014
You will be surprised at how well I improvise, between your lips and mine, I got it covered and I hope you don't mind. Us taking the time out, to cross signals, where ever we minds. This present, is our past time, making thins come together, one last time. Never say never, but not this time. The eyes never tell lies;mesmerized look in your eyes,  after you taste our surprise. It's only a matter of time, before what's yours, is mine; our lips collide, my tongue slide, inside; side-to-side. Licking your lips, slick, they glide. I'm outlining yours with mine, tracing your smile. Your tongue, teasing, taking our sweet time. I, kept my eyes, open, hoping, we could see eye-to-eye, but your eyes were closed- finally got it right this time.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

— The End —