Tonight I watch the water hit my skin No matter how hard I scrub I just can't get this day to go down the drain So I guess It stays This depressed state At this point it knows me better than my own shadow At this point it knows me better than I know me At this point What's the point...
Droplets of water falling on our skin Naked, under the showerhead My lips are moist from kissing your chin Not a place left dry, everything’s wet
Passionate kisses Inside the shower Two puzzle pieces Are joined with fierce power The water is running A cleansing rain The screams are coming Overwhelming brain Sacred water Lingers on our lips Taken as offering from a holy altar By our passionate post-shower kiss
Brown hair drip drops down onto black squishy flip flops and seamless white plastic shower floor.
Then it is tan sand and saltwater spray; and the great gray-blue ocean lies before bare burrowing toes and air vent breaths are washing tides and the shushing breeze.
She is naked and young and alone tan, svelte and smooth squeezing sea from dark tangled hair on a beach where air smells sweet salt, not stinking seaweed and everything the temperature of her body. The sun burns not too hot or bright in pastel-streaked sky rays not of needle glares but cotton.
The standing, quiet calm no chatter but seagulls air enough to fill both lungs:
a world that is plush and halcyon and needs no reason
I wrote this poem when I was super anxious (obviously in the shower), and I just needed some fantasy to feel okay.
this creative mind would never make him like you. no matter how colorful you color your words, or how you decorate it with pretty flowers, he wouldn't like you.
he asked you about the rain, you answered and thought of it as a release. a burst of emotion, just like letting go. but it seems that he had brought an umbrella and avoided your indirect release of feelings, or maybe he took shelter upon a waiting shed. as he stands alone, waiting for the one his heart yearns for, you continue to shower him with your deepest feelings through the form of raindrops that make sound above the roof, desperately wanting for his attention.
A tiny trickle of sand passing through the fingers of your hand that's an hour just a shower of amber grains what remains of a once mighty boulder much older than time it has heard midnight chime many times the tick tick tock of the clock of eternity and now it embraces modernity slowly wearing away day by day hour by hour as a shower of sand in the palm of your hand
she came up behind me, curled her long fingers into my scalp ****** in air through her teeth, and lowly she said, "How long has it been since you've showered?" embarrassment is an understatement. I laugh, shuffling nervously in my seat, feeling beyond disgusting replying with "sad." she repeats the word back, tasting it as if it were a question, as if she didn't know then she said it quieter. "sad. i get sad too. try to take one tonight, okay? do it for me?" i hold back tears for reasons I'm not yet sure of and breathe. I want to be strong enough to do it but I'm not sure that I am