Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
Starry eyes

soft hands

red lips

daring smile

brushed cheeks


Cool silences

heated touches

under clothes,

sparks sizzle

mouthing lust

cradling hunger

******* seduction

pressing desire


Stolen glances

furtive nods

open legs

graceful back;


sprawled apart

lights off

always are,

fingers invade

hands clasp

playful bites

exercised tongues

mouths explored

rough caresses

skinned alive,

beneath you.


Devoured clean

each gasp

shuddering ecstasy

tastes tangy

mouth over

mine whole.


Rolled over

pinned down

held up

crawled over

arched high

we come

clean.


Long received

wishes unveiled

want realised

fancies overturned

lust cold

power charged

but

empty socket.


Leave me

opened up

spooned out

messy bruised

cut bare.

Hollowed out

carried away

with sneaking,

light feet.


Wondering lonely

your whereabouts;

touching who

under covers

right now.


Lost darling

snatched love

tapered heart

stranded crush;

sing alone

sad songs

without me.

Empty rain,

weak winds,

nothing everything;

you’re lost,

without me.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
You place a rose in my hand to

tell me you love me.

It blooms, a single rose;

luscious petals of red and pink and hues in-between.

The folds and intricacies, the frailest branching veins and roughened stem.


It ages.

Softness becomes dry and crisp beneath the pads of fingers.

It rustles together, sheets of parchment with your words of love imprinted

on blossoms that stick together in the dry, stale air.

I watch it everyday.

Through the smiles, the laughs, the moans and whispers,

the tightened holds, the anger, the confusion, the lies and the tears

you litter across my bedroom;

desiccated, broken petals of faded pastels and trust I take back and

hide from you.

The thorns draw beads of blood whenever I touch my flower.


I place a rose in your hand to

tell you this is dangerous, and that I can’t love you.

It crumbles, this single hunched rose;

jagged fragments of petals stuck together in the heat of

hot breath between us.

The cracks, the disappearing veins don’t trace the fragile openings.


It has aged, beyond repair.

The stem a dried, rough twig in my palm, I hold out

to you the dusty blossoms that fall straight to the ground.

It’s light, incredibly pale and thin and cold today.

One flick of my finger breaks it’s stalk in two; one for both of your hands.

Thorns scratch your palms, twisting lines on your skin;

scars that remind you of the flower you brought me

and what happened when you let it degrade.


Time dragged its sticky corrosive fingers over it.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I’m worried for you.

I’m worried about what I’ve done with you.

I’ve buried you in the sand, grazed your skin with fingernail cuts;

half moons pattern your arms and back like wallpaper.


I shouldn’t succumb to this.

I’ve dragged you into a pit and stored you in a hollow.

I shouldn’t need to pick a random lover, I shouldn’t need them now,

urgently.

I shouldn’t crave the physical I know you yearn from me behind the

silence

that snakes around the room.

Behind the intensity and firmness of your face.

I wish I didn’t see it all so keenly, a sensory power I dredge up

from secluded stores and hidden vaults.


I shouldn’t have fallen into my own snare every single time you

pull closer, warm breath and lips and teeth,

and I push your chest away.


I don’t understand why I have to do this.

Puppet pulled on strings to do strange and filthy acts;

gaining strength and poise not necessary but pleasurable,

lying with you knowing I’m with company but feeling so alone,

so cold and dusty and ***** on the inside.


I lose myself in a moment, spending all the time

thinking in the moment.

I’m so wrapped up, I don’t hear you mutter to relax.

I will not do this with you, because it means

ultimately hurting one another, in particular you.

I will not try to encourage you, because me lying next to you

knowing you will hand yourself over, is like slipping on ice.


I taste blood in my mouth.

I think it’s yours.

I bled out years ago, over the bedroom and into the bathroom;

showering off filth and wetness and ****** handprints.

That lingering, thick smell of sweat and fluid and nothing.


I’m so sorry I can’t be strong enough to resist my shadows,

my faded lights and creeping tongues;

I’m so sorry I set them on you, like vultures given

the scent of already culled meat.

I am your predator, hunting amongst the heaving animals,

long into the stillness of the empty dawn.

I’m so sorry, sweet, that I will reach around and take something from you.

I’m so sorry I tried to protect you and betrayed myself.


I wanted to embrace you and welcome how you felt in my arms,

I’m sorry I just couldn’t express it.

I wanted to make sure to uncomplicate us; secure that safety you felt

with me guiding you too all those vulnerable places to touch together,

I’m sorry I just couldn’t express it.


I still long to try again.

Will you let me try again?
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
Music sings out, sobbing in the silence

of a darkened room.

It rises and falls, waves of calm and turmoil,

shared in bursts;

crescendoes of chaos and gentle melodies,

like bridges between tears.


This is where heart-ache resides;

patient and deadly, it waits.

It lurks in crowded corners, along with

all the other sins you make room for.

It makes the music you wish others

could hear, soft murmurs repeating

long into the night.


This is where everything resides.

The dark portions are home to all

your creatures, and all the music

they make;

worn strings and sticky keys.

Jealousy and its drumbeats

paired with dishonest notes and

the jagged shadows of your temptations

and spite.


The room is loud around you, but no one

on the other side of the door can hear

you cry it’s too loud.

They hear a rustle of leaves in a barren night.

Nothing more.


I confess.

I confess I still love you.

I confess I still desire another, and another;

I confess to all these temptations, passions left

sour in my mouth.

I confess to dreaming of you hurt.

I confess to rejecting your body once before,

a one night stand left on pause for days.


I confess to inflicting your words, just like I confess

to feeling bruised and wounded.

I confess to tears, when I see you embrace another.

I confess to tears in the long, cold night; because

I only feel empty at the thought of your name.

I confess to wishing I’d screamed at you, howled

in agony before your eyes as you slipped between my fingers.

I confess to hoping you would admit your scandalous lies,

and confess to knowing you never would be good enough to.


I confess to whispering your name above me,

and being glad I don’t have to bear a response.

I confess to painting your memories in words,

and loving how they float away,

as slippery and fine as silk.

I confess all these things, in your name.
storm siren Aug 2016
Judging the millennials
For not wanting to have ***
With everything that moves.

Don't you understand,
It's not because of technology
Or a lack of human contact
Or emotional behavior?

It's because we're working ourselves to bone,
And we're reading books in order to succeed,
And we're studying everything and anything
We can get our hands on.
And we want something meaningful,
Something real,
Something honest.

Don't get me wrong,
I'm sure it'll be something that's worth it,
When the time comes for us all,
But isn't it better that we build relationships
Based upon foundations of friendship and loyalty
And committed hopes and dreams,
Investing our lives and ourselves into the other person,
Than doing it like rabbits do?

I'd rather love someone
For who they are
And how they make me feel,
Than be infatuated
With their organs.

We have taken a lesson from our parents generation--
Relationships built upon *** and nothing else end in failure, shame, and disgust.

So please,
Take a lesson out of our book.

*** is probably better
When holding the persons hand
Excites you just as much
As holding an existential conversation with them.

Please remember,
Lust holds no power over love.
So very sick of shallow judgments.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
You are wanted again,

pined for in dark places.

You are wanted.

Flashing lights,

I’m in dire need of your touch.


You are wanted, teased and played for a fool;

You let them take your favours from you,

riding the rollercoaster at the carnival, over and over

again until you feel sick

to your

soul.


Sweet after sweet unravelled from the wrapper,

you are swayed into the night,

stolen away by their clever, cunning calls.

Secret sojourns in the dead hours,

clasping what little dignity you have around your bare form,

you follow the scent of temptation,

in all of its wildest forms.

You are wanted.

You leave them spellbound in your wake,

demons tickling your skin,

begging as they rock you in their arms.


Tangled limbs, heat and salt,

they crave you with the lights turned off.

You can feel the frenzied brush of skin before,

you even arrive at your

destination.

You take their calls and respond to their

distress, feeling a false power,

a slow drag of your pulse,

a maddening pull towards their open doors.


You are needed.

Perfumed; scented like innocent summer flowers,

you dress and quicken to their magnetic pull.

You find your way to their arms as deftly as if you’ve been before.

All the while your head and heart

thrum,

tick tick,

cogs churning over how bottomless you must be

to look for worth in the physical attraction

of a stranger’s

craving.


You are an addiction. A drug,

the ***** they desperately wish to consume, ravenous and

wide-eyed.

They know you need them too.

They know you are devoted to

soothing their souls,

healing their scars,

filling their desires as they drink all of you in,

a long sweep as their eyes linger at all the right spots.

They know you are devoted, submissive and persuaded,

growing like flowers to the sunlight,

because of the awakening they feed you.

Long dormant, you gather prowess, confidence,

strictly a tease until you bathe in their pleasure of you.


A light flares behind your eyes.

You are wanted.

The sensual hush as you both obey each other in turn;

Do you need me there, or here;

What do you like most?

You both trace and ***** for the task at hand,

locked together, mouths lost in each other.


You were wanted.

After the flames have burnt low, you lie awake

feeling the storm rage inside.

Why did you need to do this?

What was the point at being the forbidden sweet;

the object of someone so beyond reach?

Their eyes will forget your shape,

forget the games you played,

until they remember you,

born out of their loneliness.

Just as you leave feeling the scald of yours.


You were once wanted.

But now you crawl into bed alongside your insecurity.

You adjust the pillow to find pity nestled beneath the sheets.

Can you love yourself? If those men you please can’t really love you?

You can reach for them as they drift further back, but don’t

expect them to hold you as you sleep.

Don’t expect anything more than a cruel jab as they

tease you like a child.

Lull yourself to sleep, rest your body,

and freeze your heart in place.

Preserve as much as you can,

before it blows away on the morning air.

Let your arms hold you,

let them warm you

as you recover what is missing.
foolish young prince
wrapped up in your fairytale
not every story has a
happy ending
and yours, oh yours
it’s got magic, and knights,
and it’s even got a kiss
ah, the stuff of dreams
you’d forever miss
but witches can curse
and knights wield swords
and to make matters worse
it’s not a princess you want
you foolish young prince
stuck inside your bubble
in love with a king
looking for trouble
oh, what a twist
the princess is crying
the witches are cursing
the knights, they’re after you
foolish young prince
learn to hide your desire
they don’t like what’s different
it’s copies they admire
guess your happily ever after
ended in disaster
and afterall
even mighty princes
fall
off their white horses
Next page