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The Mellon Nov 7
Mamma always told me-
I was struck motionless at the sight of her
Don't let me catch you playin' with fire.-
Her hair was ablaze
One of these days you're gonna get burned. -
Yet I am but a moth to her flame
Two poems in one, because 2 is always better than one.
Cosmo Beck May 9
Your name is Little Red
Well your code name, that is
You're kept a secret from Parents
I talk about my Little Red to friends
They know not to say your name when Mom is around
Because in this day and age
I have to keep you a secret to stay alive
But when the lights are low
And nobody is home
I get to show you to the world
It's society's fault that my mother can't know
I'd get kicked out or worse
But when we are in public
They get to see
How much I love you and you love me
**** are slowly becoming known
But its hard to explain to a parent
How you don't have a gender
You aren't he or she
You are in between
You have long red hair and beautiful green eyes
Am I considered *** or is that just a lie?
But for now you're hidden away
From parents to see
This love that is blossoming
Between you and me
Her eyes were pale, a blue crystallized moment frozen like an arctic ocean, frozen in a moment in time, and a beautiful one at that.
Her hair, a smooth red, long strands of vanilla scented silk.
Whether put up in a bun or let down, there was something about the way it framed her face.
When let down, her hair complimented her smile in a way that can only be explained as upper class charm though being an every day country girl, but while also being somewhat natural in an animalistic way.
Not in a barbaric sense, but a natural set of waves and curls that when combined with her fierce locking blue eyes seemed to grip my heart and aggressively pull it into her grasp.
A sort of fierce sexuality hidden beneath her pale complexion.
A fire like body, hair, and personality in equal measure. I, of course, found her beyond the definition of irresistible.
I am just drunk enough at the moment to upload this restructured version of one of the intros to one of my short stories
T R S Feb 20
*** how I miss her
And wish she was with me
I ****** away mystery when I had her
And now I miss her hair

Triggered in a barrel is where the fire starts
Powder on a pyre can make a tired heart
Kellin Feb 13
Sunshine radites though her hair,
Soft moonlight liummantes through mine

Thus the moon chases after the sun

Eyes of steel emeralds,
And pale opals
The best perhaps ever mined

Blackbeards most precious find

Moonlight dances along her skin
And fire on mine.
Kellin Feb 9
To the girl
With fire
for hair
Animate my soul  
Burn away the loneliness
Guden Nov 2017
And you move around
Your bedroom
Down between your legs
On your head
In my mouth.
And I get a taste of you
Breathing in your breathing out.
And we touch
I lick
Every part
Not covered in clothes,
We're *****.
And morning comes
The room gets heated
Is it the sun?
Is it the fire in your hair?
Between your legs?
Tyler Castro Jul 2017
Scarlet-haired maiden. Blood-soaked kitten. Our history once bled from my veins. May the ink from my pen be the last drop to leak from my stitches. I have cursed, I have blasphemed, and for what? You are as blind as ever as to what I am saying. It is as if those crows finally got around to doing my bidding. Scarlet-haired maiden, I am but a Jester to call you so. Calling you a maiden is a folly no less disastrous as calling a Siren a fish. Blood-soaked kitten, you dare call yourself such a familiar? Call your fat self a, "Little" in search of a father figure? Hark… You're but a beast rolling around in lovers' blood. Licking the sweet nectar off your soft and welcoming fur. Had I  not known better I'd reach down to the pits of **** just to pet you. I'd risk your curious claws getting at my loose thread. Sadly… I am but a Jester…I lead you back to our old tree. Our shrine where Gaia herself guarded our love. Where I gave you my heart in the form of an odd pedaled flower. To this day, I dare not to let a white Jasmine flower offend my nostrils. Its sour scent will begrudgingly throw me back to sweet—fleeting—moments. Moments where I had you play the "Loves-Me-Not" game whilst utterly ignoring the warning sign of the very NAME of said game. Moments where I was unaware of the very games you were playing.
Cné Mar 2017
Sitting on a ****
Having a rest
Dreaming of wearing
A beautiful dress

Hair cascading
Red curly locks
Waste of time, who cares
There are no clocks

Awaiting a happening
With nothing in sight
Mischief merriment
Anything, even a fright

Breena, bored to death
'Tis true
Wanting only,
For something to do.
Wrote this for a painting I did of a red headed fairy sitting on a tree ****.
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