She's a good girl with naughty thoughts
She thinks of him , her stomach gets knots
Her eyes close and she can smell him
His touch makes her world dim
Her thighs squeezed at the sight
The sound of his voice sparks and ignite
Her brain thunders under the cluster ****
The naughty thoughts is more than a buck
She just wants to be his ****
Degraded, roughed up like a nut
Choked; she has no air
When he's laying on her bare
He loves the taste of her soft sweet skin
As he pushes himself at her chin
He breathes in deeply as he push
Her soft smooth butterfly makes his blood rush
Her legs tremble and her body feels explosion
He doesn't as she loves the erosion
Both releasing themselves with their aroma in the air
Into the universe we place our trust.
Closing our eyes, holding each others hands and falling backwards into us.
Flowing through the milky way,
unbothered and bathing in love...
All of this happening so quickly just from one simple touch.
A sacred act...
An electric attack that crept up our spines.
Bonded through water and air sealed you and I for all of time.
A trust fall into the universe, we're flowing now...
Using our minds more than our mouths.
Getting in touch through telepathy,
even now I know you're hearing me...
I had no time for love,
and you had no time for men.
After one laid his hands on you and you said you'd never place your faith in any again.
But the universe laughed cuz it had other plans
and it's that exact energy that placed you right where I am.
And here we are easily swimming through stars and oh how I wish I could slow it all down...
A love story for the angels to marvel developed at the speed of light,
so beautiful and so profound.
I write into existence stories that'll last until the end of time.
Speaking of someone and no one, causing confusion in the minds of those who find it hard to enter into mine.
It's all about energy and I try vibrating high, so that I bring to life just what I write upon these lines.
The co-creator of my own life, diving deep into my pool of imagination just to keep my world a little more colorful and bright.
So I closed my eyes and wrote exactly what I seen inside.
A love story about someone and no one, all at the same time.
And what's left are crumpled up papers and rough drafts of deleted scenes...
I tore through all the books again;
Left the endings forgotten and
folded in on themselves:
a smattering of ink and
it’s the unfinished epilogue
that stings the most.
We are much too young
To worry this much
All that we have to offer
We carry around
In a suitcase
The size of a plum
Yet we worry
We will never be
The Gods who control us
Puppeteers in balcony seats
We are just passengers
In this brief carasoul
Of a lifetime
This is a rough draft of a poem I am working on. I would love to hear some feedback so I can improve my work. Thank you lovelies xo
Don't you feel bad for Grendel,
His mind is poisoned by the devil.
He is just a lost boy in a harsh world against him.
Voices in his head push towards the brim
He hates the world that he roams alone.
The Dragons charm; his flesh hard as stone.
The Shaper's voice; his head is aching
Wealthoew's beauty; his heart is breaking
Grendel's anger seals his fate
Fatal madness will not abate
His demise is in the mead hall.
He dies from accident; So may you all....
This is not the final version
When my grandfather passed I found a butterfly
Yellow and small hovering around my shoulders, lightly kissing my cheeks with every flutter
I walked five feet, then ten. Bidding farewell to my new friend.
And yet, the friend followed me no matter how far I strayed
And so I returned home to my mother, the yellow butterfly following behind
Then her eyes widened with shock, and, a touch of happiness
Her smile turned bittersweet as she pulled me into her arms
'Look dear,' she said, pointing at my new friend.
'There's your grandfather, he's come to visit.' She reached out with her fingers and the butterfly settled on them.
'How could that be grandpapa, Mama?' I asked, curious as ever.
'When a loved one passes, their spirit visit us in the form of butterflies.'
Twenty years since. butterflies have followed my every step.
I've begun to wonder if they announce the passing of a loved one or prepare me for my own
I want to write.
I want to create.
But I rarely feel like I can.
I want my words to mean something.
I want them to be heard to the volume I expressed them at.
I want them to explode minds.
I want them to carry emotions.
I want what I create to be beautiful in a personal interpretational way.
I want them to educate.
I want less to be more.
I want them to make people feel.
Isn't selfish of I to hold back myself because I may not get what I want?
Isn't selfish of I to hold back one's voice because I may not get what I want?
Isn't unfair to my soul to tell it no because I may not get what I want?
Isn't cruel of I to bury my desires because I may not get what I want?
Is it not foolish of I to be thinking: I want, I want, I want...
when God has given me: You can, you can, you can.
come get yours
while i;m drowning in this fixture
take your time in the half-life
the pills that pose a purpose
postulate your position
poison to this far too precious heart-
You little ****. Who gave you the right to decide that for me? I am my own person, if you don't like my choices then leave. Talk to me and we'll figure something out, that's how easy it'd be. If you would help me out, rather than call me out, sobriety would be an easier goal to achieve. But no, you shout and you shout, telling me I've done wrong. Commanding me to change rather than asking how to help me stop... You don't know half of the things I've seen and I've done. What happened to me to make me want to replace the missing pieces. The dark parts of my childhood, how I became a woman at the age of eight. How my step father touched me in that place. That place no little girl should have touched at that age. How dealing with high expectations that I know I cannot meet, not because I don't want to, but because my disability ties down my hands and feet. Feeling trapped by what happened to me. Living with that monster, pretending it's all okay. Controlling all my flashbacks and panic attacks. Pretending to be strong for five younger siblings who look up to me. Setting a perfect example, wearing myself down, ripping myself apart to satisfy everyone's needs. Trying my hardest to keep everyone around me happy because I know what it's like to hate yourself so much your pores ooze self doubt and insecurities. So sorry I drink and smoke **** and I don't meet your religious needs. Just let me finish this last cigarette please.