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Aug 2016 · 414
Firefly Streetlights
Wilhelmina Aug 2016
Sherbert skies, and church bells at 6 am.
Your blushing, bruised collar is my alibi,
cause it's where I've been.
Hips move, lick and moan
You are everything I've ever known
Thunder rolls 'cross fields of grain
Into burning bones, you've etched your name
Your hips feel like home
Though I can't help but roam,
You've so much to explore,
leaves me gasping for more
Sitting together as we watched the storm roll by...
I didn't want to say goodbye.
Feb 2016 · 2.0k
Divine Action
Wilhelmina Feb 2016
Forget everything you've heard about *******.
It is not pathetic. It is not *****. It does exist for women.
It is not replacing an absence of ****** fulfillment.

Concept: we all posses the power to be our own ****** fulfillment.

Yes, you posses magic that can send lighting across your trembling skin. Your hand needs no navigational assistance; it moves with the wholesome earth of your body, the rolls and valleys of flesh, all while following networks of crackling nerves and goosebumps.

Feel your heart beating in your chest!
Feel your ***** thrum with life and vitality,

Your digits are like brushes, learning the canvas they paint.  The wet paint dripping down your leg is a sure sign of a masterpiece on the horizon.

The spread of the sky, like the spread of your legs, is vast, and not completely known. Your fingers are long skeleton keys, keen to unlocking your own passionate ****** and sweeping pleasure.

That majesty and mystery of what dwells in the valley of your thighs, the mouth of your womb, will draw many to the mountain silhouettes of your bent legs.

Of course, the keys that best fit will always swing from your keychain.

There is no shame in knowing the bounty of your own body,
the same way that no one blames volcanologists for
the study of hot, flowing earth.

We are privileged to explore our own unique topography, memorizing maps of our rises and falls, creating a seismic shift beneath our skin, and letting loose pent up pleasure and pressure and sensation.

It is our own divine action. We are gods of our own earthly bodies.
if this poem made you uncomfortable, that only proves my point
Feb 2016 · 273
Untitled
Wilhelmina Feb 2016
The more I know you, the less I understand.
But it is all the best things that
we are resigned to never learn in their entirety.
We are drawn in by the mystery,
heading the ethereal call of misty isles
and faraway eyes.
Nov 2015 · 1.5k
Hopscotch Hymnal
Wilhelmina Nov 2015
THEY walk / Just one / Alone on the cracked pavement / Toes dragging, head sagging / tripping over lines that aren’t there.
High tops / the likes of God himself /sanctified, glorified, / pearly white as the gates of heaven / Consumerism, cleverly disguised / as divine ascension, the righteous liberty of choice / the steering of your own destiny- / and yet / ... / those footprints in the dirt /  seem only to last as long  / as anyone cares to look.

THEY / THEIR / THEM / Words rarely respected / most often neglected / every conversation, a silent battle / for the right to exist as THEY see themselves / THEY are a complete deviance from / the suffocation of two / neither pink, nor blue. / THEIR body, our bodies / once beautiful in our youth and vigor / now condemned as destitute wastelands. / Reaped of any / dichotomized consumeristic value, / that the world instilled during our years of innocent persuasion. / We are dust now, society tells us / just ghosts of what the earth once bore;  / our place is nonexistent in this world. / Little choice but the next,  / a test with limited boxes to check. / Maybe they’ll listen when our cold, nighttime howls / are too loud to ignore. / Maybe one day, we’ll fill the ears with our voice / never to be quelled again. / But until then / existence becomes more a question than fact.


A red rover world; / it croons to us lovingly,  / as does the sun coax the flowers to bloom / come out! the world says / come out! / our wayward sons / come out! / our wandering daughters / come out, oh battered children of the world / let us cradle your broken hearts! / let us see your tears!  feel your anguish! / and maybe we will know you better for your suffering. / And so we came, and continue to come. / not all, but enough for the satisfaction of the status morale / Be different! the world challenges / And so THEY dare to live differently, / and by extension, dangerously. / We ascend, just like the logos told us we would- / only to be brutally thrown aside / because we’re all the wrong shoe size. / our punishment is most often internalized / we knew all along, our woes an offbeat cry / to the rest of the planets unwavering bass line.


Scrutiny badgers us, in the guise of necessity / when in reality, it is the / furtherment of our marginalization. / What’s in your pants? / What bathroom do you use? / How do you ****? / Liquidated words flow free like water, / but stay behind, slow and thick like hot tar; / it hurts just the same. / Has it occurred to you / that THEY might want to share with you / more than the anatomy of THEIR mortal shells? / THEIR minds, THEIR souls transcend ignorant thought. / Ask THEM something beautiful, because that is what THEY are. / Do THEY come together like a star, in a glorious explosion of light and motion? / Or is it more like a flower blossoming, fragile pulses beating under translucent skin?


The labels of today / the toxic expectations building up from within / like residual filth trapped under your fingernails / never gone, bound to return, nearly inescapable / and never directly addressed / for the sake of not / corroding. / The stars are within kaleidoscope eyes. / yes, dexterous hands have crafted this being / see the light, the mystique and wonder of / this stardust child, set to change the spin of things. / and THEIR heavenly shape is beautifully flawed / maybe marred by the solar winds of the sun / or glimmering with interstellar dust- / a lingering kiss of radiation  / from THEIR time among the asteroids. / This person of universal intent / THEY must be big, and THEY must be brave / for whilst joined under flag and name, THEY are still just one  / a lonely phantom wandering cracked, forgotten sidewalks / Where the lights flicker and the air is stagnant and thin. / THEY cast THEIR eyes skyward, searching for something / a twinkling like THEIR own, in the map of the vast unknown / A reflection of what THEY must become / to simply be.


In a way only the universe can, / it whispers back on the celestial winds / with an unnoticed correspondence. / One of those skidded toe marks / Has smudged the lines of / blue and pink / Hopscotch lines, much like unspoken, unbroken lines / that is where THEY reside. / the fray, the cusp, the precipice / THEY see THEIR world in the skidmarks / a grand spray of color, like the nebulas that THEY once knew / Not the line, but the divergence of what is known / into something new... / and a hopscotch hymnal, / a broken prayer on clumsy lips / not to the God with the high tops, / pearly and clean as heaven’s gate, / but to a vast and anonymous universe / is answered.
a post for the lovely people at the Thunderhead Writers Collective- hope you guys can view it now!
Mar 2015 · 861
Any Less, Any More
Wilhelmina Mar 2015
you're the kind of girl
they write sad indie songs about.

a grandly woven rug, full of color and zeal
held together with cheap scotch tape
and promises written in thick smoke by the most crafty of tongues.

dangerous girl-
though just as much to herself as to the rest of the world.

you're the kind of girl who thinks of herself
as a character in an offbeat film:
starkly humorous, deeply tortured,
a promising independent piece that doesn't quite have its identity yet.

maybe such a film is the brainchild
of a few washed up art students
some of which got together with cheap whiskey
and enough ambition to keep the world turning
for a little while longer
so they could breath life into you, starchild.

their lonely, brilliant minds fused into one
equally brilliant
equally lonely
teenage deadbeat
who's trying
but only just enough
to make herself feel something.
i wasnt 100% sure about posting this, but whatever. here we are.
Jan 2015 · 512
"i love you"
Wilhelmina Jan 2015
But you could live without me, right?

You've done an excellent job of proving it so far, love.

Once I'm yours, everything stops.
Doubt brushes up my spine, the ghost of every romance gone wrong.
The missteps and mistakes that broke the spell, or simply chased away what was already dead and gone from our hearts.

How can I ever know what swirls behind your eyes and moves beneath your skin, if you're never inclined to show me or tell me of your secret way?

I lie in bed at night and wonder if you find me beautiful, or worthwhile to you...

You read my poetry with stone lips and brittle eyes.

You seek not the light that stirs within me. I know only that light. You seem now to be nothing but a moth, who's attention I'd held for a tentative breath.

A breath that was ****** into the grand hurricane of life itself, born to be nothing more than a quiet whisper on a dark, still night when I'm in some far away place, alone.

It was dissipated on the cold northern winds, scattered on freshly fallen snow in some forgotten place you and I have lost the map to.
How can I say I'm truly happy if whenever I'm left with myself, all I can do is fall into various states of emotional desperation?
Jan 2015 · 568
12:38 am [11-17-14]
Wilhelmina Jan 2015
So yes,

Feel free to paint my scalp any color you choose.
Massage color into my listless locks, and let the pigment seep through
the tiny, pin needle cracks in my skull.

I want to see the dye behind my eyes.
I want to feel the kaleidoscope making my broken mind beautiful again.

You are an artist, a concentration of stars, the gentle breath of a wayward nebula ambling through space and time.

Stars are in your eyes, my love, and I wouldn't have you any other way.

I am a hummingbird heart on a ripped up sleeve, a bumbling creature that brims with pretty words that are too big for her halfway heart mouth.

As you preen and paint, darling, save me this. I don't care what you paint me as- another mistake, a prayer on trembling lips, or manic mumblings after midnight...

Just christen my hair with your fingers when we're done. Run them through so that I can shake out stardust afterwards. Kiss me so I can taste honey on my breathe long after you've gone away.

Love me like I'm a promise worth keeping.
Jan 2015 · 542
Her ( 12:00 am )
Wilhelmina Jan 2015
it's another loud party,
filled to the brim with loud music, loud people-
i stop breathing for a bit because even that feels deafening.

i look at you,
my beautiful girl
and think about how we can never truly touch
that our cells will never know one another
as I have come to know you in my heart
and to them, the building blocks of my mortal form,
you are just another stranger in the night
passing on the street, heading home
or maybe to a bed that's not your own.

but that's a thought that the drink in my glass won't stand for
be happy! it calls to me,
its forlorn gaze of burgundy, begging to seep into my pale skin
and make me pretty in the soft light
of this absurdly loud party,

i look at you,
and i see your bright, blown open eyes
like gaping wounds into your soul
that pour the light of your life into someone else's glass

he doesn't care, he doesn't know i plead silently
but maybe that's the bitter song of my downed merlot
nipping at the fray of a battered mind

it's been a while since i've sipped at your passion,
run your lust and desire across my tongue,
savored the sweet grace of your soul brushing mine.

you always did so well to paint the inside of my mouth
the most breathtaking array of kaleidoscope colors.
now, i know only the sloshing, regretful red in my glass
and the black, pitchy smoke of my burnt out heart

oh, my beautiful girl
the soft benevolence that keeps the crescent moons painted beneath your eyes-
i could never forget how much you yearn for salvation
that which lurks within your own being

is it selfish of me to hope that, at least one of the keys
to unlocking yourself
may be hidden under my tongue,
for me to give to you, or for you to find?

is it selfish that i wish to play some role in your life
other than a quivering hand to hold?
for lest we forget, my love

we two can never truly touch-
so what good does hand holding have?
haha oops I actually finished this at 12am woohoo go me
Dec 2014 · 703
Return Policy, Asshole
Wilhelmina Dec 2014
What is the concept of mortality?
To be loved? To be feared? To feel so passionately, when we know we are only to meet inevitable tragedy?

In the arms of a lover, we must ask ourselves these things.
What is the weight of mortality?
How much value is emotion to such fragile, time-sensitive creatures?
What is to be gained, or conversely lost in the game of life?

The terms of business are simple.
The rules of emotion are not.

The price tags on emotional attachment must be calculated.
What is the return policy on a kiss?
What is the punishment if it's stolen?

And how can he come to my doorstep
Seeking a refund of my battered, beaten heart,
Leaving it to rot in a plastic bag that tells me to "Have a Nice Day!"
That cheeky, yellow smile holds nothing for me now.

A defective product, is what he told me.
Take it back
I don't want it anymore.
Dec 2014 · 2.5k
Mortal Demise
Wilhelmina Dec 2014
Insecticide.
Does anyone know where I can get some insecticide?
I need it, the sensation of that cold, sleek nozzle pushing inside me
My belly button will be heavens gate- inside are those **** butterflies...
Butterflies that tremble and quiver whenever you walk by.
That fragility is my enemy.
The only solace I can ever hope for, is in the desolation of such weakness.
My heart, it would often seem, is on a suicide mission.
So eager to climb up my throat and plunge into your twin pools of blue.
Those dastardly insects are fighting like hell,
Their wings the color of your lips-
The beat of their wings, a mockery of my own heartbeat.
I guess no one told them, their wings flutter for no one but me now
And I have had far enough of their nonsense.
Desires of a lonely heart are fantastical at best.
But nothing can argue with the cold steel of that nozzle
Wedged firmly inside, its mission realized.
And finally it's a feeling that I want to feel, not any of this involuntary *******, "falling in love".
Because I really can't help falling in love with you.
I'd stop it if I could. I'd throw the train from its rails, toss the plane from the sky, sink the ship out at sea.
To forget I ever loved you.

The flowers of June no longer hold that same color.

The bitter taste of the pest control will be the only taste on my tongue.

Not yours any longer, my dear.
and so the fragility is gone.

— The End —