Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Phoebe Hynes Dec 2018
I don’t change my sheets for days
after you visit.
My squished hands guide a lazy version of my body to
the bed that invites me to crawl on top of your dry sweat.
My torso sprawls into the dream of ******* transpired.
I like the nest that we created, lounging
against a mattress I pushed in the corner.
Tee shirts slouched into the crevices against the wall,
And my five pillows circling
our old tangled limbs.
;
Lust is a shield,
A disguise of telling your eyes where to look.
Eyelashes against eyelashes.
Your iris seized a blanket
And buried a dilated pupil underneath.
This is the facade of being naked.
You’re still wearing skin.
A mattress will not preserve sensuality,
But my quilt will hold my body together
Until I find the pants I threw across the carpet.
Phi Kenzie Sep 2018
I hid my old bed in the basement
of the last place I lived
sitting with the box spring and frame

It’s a great, full set
I had to let it go
roaming back home
which is nowhere near close
Jon Thenes Jul 2018
right hand - cack hand
misinfected
an inebriant
a heat of intoxicants
'Recover Your Presence Of Mind'
i don't even have my mattress raised
from upon the floor
spilled drinks
moulds
and pages soaked to the boarding
snoring in spores
infested with messages
in nest with it all
best to withdraw
the artist
the 'madder than'
the inebriant
right ?
can one practice as a sober ?
I've never wanted to create more or been this capable before...or are the results missing something ?
something splayed
askew
scatty
splattered
hellish even ?
is it the reader ?
will we not be pleased with the results without some evidence of a soul in suffering
bewilderment
and numbing isolation?
I was told a brain on poem was a terrible thing to waste . To which I retorted ,"Which one is wasted?"
wraiths Aug 2015
you press your tongue
against the bones of my hips

hot blood splatters
against the mattress
as you bite your thin lips
through sharpened teeth
and trace your mouth
with wet kisses
across my protruding collarbones

paint my skin scarlet;
i want to drown in you
A Watoot Mar 2015
His lips traces her every line
Their breaths are all they hear
She raises a glass of wine
He sees a glass so clear

Creased sheets of the mattress
in the hot summer of May
A moment of their unrest
As the sun sets by the bay

Their breaths grew quicker
As they reached the dawn of the night
Their muscles clenched tighter
A release of spring- without a fight
I wrote this in a boring afternoon class.  My first attempt in sensuality.
Poetic T Mar 2015
"We walk upon the brown"*
Giver of life,
"We walk upon the brown"
Fertile mother earth,
"We walk upon the brown"
She feeds upon us when gone,
"We walk upon the brown"
We strolled on deaths mattress
So many below, for soon we will
Be one of those, while others
"Walk upon the brown"
Mother earth  feasts on death below.
Carlos Ayala Sep 2014
Wanting to
learn the jungle from the mattress,
I set it outside, surrounded,
by a mosquito net
pitched unto two
palm trees, in winter to
avoid coconuts falling by the southern terrace;
you should've joined me
In February, I can tell you
I never slept for carnaval.
Waleed Khalidi Sep 2014
The edge of the mattress
seats my brittle, crouched over body
Or maybe a corpse
rotted by the swirling troubles
that dizzy such a potential mind
into a useless blend of mess and worry
And the heart, left so empty
after the pathetically desperate offers it chanced for love
for a core to this depleting vessel
But now left more bare than the farthest of trenches
or the frigidly dry desert winds
More stale in my sleep than the powerless sands
whisked by its ruthless wrath
The slumbering visions
so personally horrifying
The void that infects my soul, so closely as exhausting
as when they end with my eyes' opening
Next page