Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
  May 19 Sam Tate
BR Dragos
the last time he went out of
his mind he liked it
so much there
that he never came back

not even after the
alcohol left
his blood

he keeps writing to this day

addresses women with 'sweangel'
a combination of sweet
and angel, I guess

but never spends more
than a matter of weeks
with any of them

some take pity on him
and some morbid curiosity

but no one loves him
only his insanity
Sam Tate May 19
You see,
she does not live
on your planet.
Or exist
in your world.
is the black
on a butterfly’s wings.
The tickle
on your neck.
she cannot die
she does not live.
is everything
and nothing
The last
in the
The impulse
behind your eyes
that says
She is love
and lust
and passion.
She cannot be
Her kiss
is life
and death
a beautiful
is the siren
when she calls
you will
and it will mean the end.
Sam Tate May 19
It is far too long

since I’ve tasted lust

and passion.

Let me breathe

your curves and

taste your thighs.


then sharply.

Remind my lips

of the sweetness of

Your sweat.

As we lay


vulnerable and


Our bodies

contorting in


Euphoric and


I’ll whisper


in your ears

and you’ll

trust me

with your tongue.

Let’s forget

our names

and exist


in that moment.


my back

with your


Tease out

the blood

with your nails.

Let my lips

draw a masterpiece.

Let my words


a song

and we’ll










Sam Tate May 19
The crystal ball grows dim

And shadows being to form.

Swirling into darkness,

They slowly **** the light.

The prophecy is broken.

The chosen one is gone.

Fallen prey to Hades urges.

We are now alone.

Tread lightly with your mortal soul.

Don’t let temptation break you.

If you submit to their desires,

Salvation will forsake you.
Sam Tate May 18
Sometimes, the words don’t come.

The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.

I am left with nothing to say.

There is a beauty in the broken mind.

Like an abandoned building taken by nature.

It is not that my mind does not work.

It is that it works too fast,

And I am left behind,

Scrabbling in the dust,

Desperately seeking a connection,

In the discarded fragments of thought.

I am fighting a losing battle.

I fear the white flag will soon arise.

And signal the end.
Sam Tate May 18
A crystal brim,
of molten sand,
reflects the sin,
held in my hand.
The bottle top.
A bubbly fizz.
The gentle trickle,
loves first kiss.
But love has gone,
Or doesn't exist.
A burning throat.
No longer bliss.

On occasion,
I deemed a bottle,
a bit of fun,
a little trouble.
The occasions gone,
but not the bottle.
My hand is cold,
the neck I throttle.
A tiny tremor.
A gentle slur.
It's time to go.
I hit the curb,
I make a move,
trip and stumble.
Stagger home,
alone, lumbered,
The bottle follows.
It always does.
A crown of thorns,
cut with blood.

I beg it to go,
I implore it to leave,
The bottle laughs,
The bottle's me.
A drink in the morn,
or the afternoon,
the nights as good as any,
under the moon.
I'm an addict.
to feeling,
a little less,
of anything.

It's been a month,
I've got my chip.
The flasks gone,
from my hip.
The damage's done.
My heads a mess,
but maybe it's not,
quite too late to impress,
a sober sensibility,
upon me.
Sam Tate Apr 3
Dear Sirs or Madams,
Of a literary persuasion.
I write today with,
A professional inclination.
I fear, and worry, my imagination’s clock,
Has, sadly, hit a writer’s block.

In short, I hope
(with a hesitance, hereout),
To employ the services of a muse.

Both, male and female,
Are encouraged to apply,
Though, I admit, my bias may lie,
Towards those who kindness, mercy and love,
Are praised and placed inherently above,
The human desires of power and wealth
And selfish ambition and pride in themselves.
Though, I suppose, this seems hypocritical,
I would confer this is politically cynical,
Rather, I’m looking for something. . . irrational,
An inspiration to fuel and flame my passion as,
Something and someone,
Yet, nothing and no one,
An ideal, an idol, a god and a human.
Something to write about,
A story to tell.
A depiction of the fire inside them that dwells.
The light, the colour the sun in their eyes,
The mountains and jungles, though secret, resides,
The palaces, mansions and kingdoms that hide,
Though present, disguised and entwined in their mind.

Alas, I digress,
Too often, I confess,
My mind wanders and turns,
Till I’m lost and undressed,
Left naked of topic, ideas and abreast,
Of chemical incapacity,
Of pure relativity,
So, a point of focus, a centre,
I seek, you see?
To aim my passion and love and thoughts,
And kindness and lust and heart, of course.

So please,
If you find yourself,
So inclined,
Write to introduce,
And flirt with my mind.
Tease with your words,
And caress with your lips,
And, if it elicits a feeling within,
I’ll write you a letter,
Of black ink emotion,
And seal it with blood,
And endless devotion.
Send it on its way,
To rest in your hands,
We’ll see where it takes us,
Let fate make her plans.

Yours forever,

Your humble admirer.
Next page