Mary Kate 16h

That fiery flash
A stomach falls
The electric charge of shared breath
Lips just a brush away
Yearning for unpermitted closure
A symphony
In frenetic bridging


Sweet release
And the universe flips itself once more

She's my addiction
carried as a torch, my flame
my sexual benediction
I'll never be, the same

Every breath I take, a reason
fanning passion, and the flames
knowing, every day, and season
just why, I moan, her name

Missing the touch of fingers
her breath ignites, my fire
everything about her, lingers
she's everything, I desire

The heat, and passions flare
every time, shes near to me
of her presence, I'm aware
she means that much, you see

Always, in a good way ;D

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
You can let them look at you.
But do not mistake eyes for hands or windows or mirrors.
Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may have not ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
You can let them touch you.
Sometimes, it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer — another woman.
But their hands found you first.
Do not mistake yourself for a guardian or a muse or a promise or a victim or a snack.
You are a woman — skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat.
You are not made out of metaphors, not apologies, not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
You can let them hold you.
All day they practice keeping their bodies upright.
Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural.
Still strains the muscles, hold firms the arms and spine.
Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,
Admit they do not have the answers they thought they would by now.
Some men will want to hold you like the answer.
You are not the answer.
You are not the problem.
You are not the poem or the punch-line or the riddle or the joke.

Woman, if you grow up the type men want to love,
You can let them love you.
Being loved is not the same thing as loving.
When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.
It is realizing you have hands.
It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home.

Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of women men will hurt.
If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean even after it has left you gasping — "salty."
So forgive yourself for the decisions you've made.
The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night and know this:
Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.
Let the statues crumble.
You have always been the place.
You are a woman who can build it yourself.
You are born to build.

-Sarah Kay

Sarah Kay is an American poet. Known for her spoken word poetry, Kay is the founder and co-director of Project V.O.I.C.E., founded in 2004, a group dedicated to using spoken word as an educational and inspirational tool.

i want to be with you girl if you want to be with me
i got to go. im sorry if i kept you from anything you wanted to do.
so ill hurry as slowly as i can.
I go no words of sympathy
And if I, I go around with you
You know that I’ll get messed up too.........

let your soul drift
what whether does life have in store for you
when im afraid i loose my mind.
its fine
it happens all the time..
all i want is to touch you.
without you wanting to touch someone else.
too good to be true i cant take my eyes off of you.
tattooed lies etched into your heart.
does it really beat for me?
at what costs would you go to raise above the stars to alter the whether in the room. in the air. in the world.
bee sting truths are better than butterfly lies.
but butterflys dont fly in the wintertime.
music notes meet and talk to each other.
keep telling yourself they dont, baby

i cant write you a song.
i cant provide you with solitude.
if you settle for my carelmel skinned broken ballad you'll lose out on a sweet song, and youll be broken too
youre a white light, a blessing. you lead and float in the sky brighter than stars.
but stars arent always meant to allign.
please wait here and let go of my hand.
i promise little star youll be alligned soon
or ill just be another tattoo.
you wont drift for very long.
theres always magic in your eyes.
theres always love and respect.

so baby ill hurry as slowly as i can....

I want to be with you, gal
If you want to be with me
But i know you have got to go
It's all right.....
me and my love came to an end.
for a better start for her.
you are meant for him.. whether you know it or not.
so i will hurry, as slowly as i can ..... so you can be ready to run in the right direction,

. i love you.

im sorry im the one you want to be with
but not the one you should be with. its him.
haley 2d

my favorite, old,
yet loved book;
the yellowed pages
bent at the corner
as bookmarks,
margins full of notes

a young adult
with a goofy aura,
a gentle smile,
an adventurous look
that never leaves your eyes

your kisses
are addicting
sweet like honey

aggressively intimate

your voice
calm and relaxing,
your laughter
is music to my ears

(as this is different from touch)
it comforts me,
on a rainy day indoors
curled into your arms

home is where the heart is
it beats for you

to the love of my life
Ni 5d

The day we spoke
was the day I smiled
I looked at you and
I saw something
I hadn't seen in a while.
It was that smile
that I loved so much
and suddenly
I craved your touch.

You became my world
that I learned to love
I would dance and twirl
I became another girl
we would talk all night
I would lose track of time
thinking about what
has really become mine.

adr 6d

"at the touch of love," says he,
"each man becomes a poet."
but some men rise above.
where, then, lies
the final line
between poetry as we know it
and the man whose heart
has been victimized by cupid's bow?
and where do we draw the line
between what we feel
and what we know?
is there a line,
whether blurred or fine?
perhaps. for though the words that leave my pen
can tell the who and why and when,
poetry is the art
of touching a heart and then
portraying it in sounds or rhymes or letters.
but love is still better-
for love is the music that poetry speaks.
love is the fire where we warm our shiv'ring feet.
she's the song the birds sing
every morning.
love is the reason behind a poet's pen-
love lost, love found, love forbidden.
perhaps the great philosopher
was on to something true:
you are the lines of poetry
when love touches you.

Daisy Marrow Nov 10

It's the morning once again.
I feel the sun on my skin as it shines in.
The sound of today's birds are chirping inside my head.
I can feel your breath on my neck.
I soak in the moment,
because the world is so quiet at this time.
We're the only one's alive right now,
I'm so glad you're mine.

So open up the windows as it starts to rain.
Let the rain calm you.
Let my touch soothe you.
No need to think about the day and the hours,
just let them linger.
Let your stress melt in our heat,
as we lay next to each other
filling all the gaps.
I can not tell a lie,
this is my paradise.

Sanny Nov 6

Like a gentle summer breeze he is touching my face.

So soft and warm.

Playing with my hair and kissing my skin.

I breathe him in, a hint of coconut.

He's everywhere, my summer air.

Even through the coldest nights he comforts me.

To remind me.

He's always there.

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