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he is a parasite
he is a leech

he feeds on your blood
he is full of greed

he has a plan to put you down
without even your notice

he started with love bombing
he ended on blaming

he did projection all the time
he injected toxicity within your happy soul

he targets his prey
he handles ten at times

he can never be loyal
he does chronic lying

show him the mirror
show him the death

cut off his oxygen
don't ever interact
jcl Jul 6
I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.

I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.

“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.

Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.

As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”  

She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.  

She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.

“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should  kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”
currently writing #5, your comments and feedback are greatly appreciated
The little squirrel enjoyed its nutty meal
Happy it squealed
The preying bird perched high in the tree
Happy, enjoyed its meal
As the squirrel squealed its last
While the little squirrel lived its nutty fruity dream
Katie Apr 30
Sleep is a comfort
It stops all the madness that fills my mind and ends the grueling existence I've found myself in
But, sleep does not come easy
Turning my brain off is like pulling the prey out of a lion's mouth
Thoughts dig their talons in and I can't find rest
Memories flood in like waters during a hurricane and I toss and turn
I long for that moment of complete exhaustion when the black wall goes up and things can't get in. Finally complete darkness.
Poetress2 Apr 23
Submerged to its' eyes,
Crocodiles hunt their prey.
It is very still.
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