"blowjobs" poems
warm black coffee syrup
down my esophagus
it's a shame
you kinged me when you did
because i have more to offer
than those sweet mint nights
out in those cars
and as much as i wish
i knew how to whisper
to the bees,
I'm glad I can't
I'd rather keep the sting a mystery
I hate to sleep in my own bed-
it is already filled with ghosts
and everything plastered on my walls
is a reminder of everything
i have failed to achieve
your elbow excites me
because the angles
tell me stories of when dew
settled on grass
but those stories are
strictly for my dreams
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
This is what she looks like when she's sad:
The human condition effective immediately.
Winter shades shift side to side,
exploding out of each iris.
Skin falling off,
when lunging forward to kiss me.
Fingernail daggers dig into my pores.
I'll bleed under her fingernails,
if she'll drag them down my torso
until her knees click the floor.
This is her tongue inside of my mouth:
We taste each other before we waste each other.
Hip bones parallel and our eyes rubbing shoulders,
my hands surfing her rib cage
and it's all the rage because she moans.
And when she moans,
color tones orbit around her head.
Planetary tumors dancing around her skull;
jump roping with her hair,
eating morals and removing plurals.
Those are her lips around me.
Her head moves up and down
but her eyes focus on me.
She makes eye contact
and I empty my dreams
into her mouth.
We are a public forum.
I ache with alcohol poisoning
and liberal undertones.
The terrain that is my face
bleeds oils that would lubricate
the axle of the car that she drove
into the tree
that we carved our name into.
Come back to me.
I miss you so much.
I watched you die.
I watched you die
and there was nothing I could do.
They told me that she wouldn't make it.
They told me that she might make it.
My hand gripped at blood stained blanket.
I think she said my name under the air mask.
I could tell if she saw me;
her eyes rolled back into her head
after she gazed a thousand yards away
into the field of black
that sheltered the tall grass
that we would chase each other through
and get lost in
as we got lost in each other.
I love you! I ******* love you!
My back, a membrane coil
that rises my stiff neck
that cares my head full of memories.
I turn on the light and you're not there next to me.
I put my hand on your copy of The Thornbirds
and know that you've read it more than the notes
I leave in your inbox,
hoping that it'll say that you have seen it.
Walking to your grave,
I am a darkness that the abyss has swallowed
and I have followed myself into nothingness
that is such bliss
that I forget
your kiss.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
She said the word frustrated like she meant it:
Sexually frustrated, she clarified
Her hobby was going down on strangers
You could ask her anything, she wouldn't lie.
I'm guessing there's a reason why she told me
And everything was working down below
But somehow now she'd dropped her little hint bomb
I decided that I'd rather take it slow
Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against ********
Or *** with strangers in nice restaurants
Or buxom beauties who wear too much make-up
I just don't trust girls who know just what I want.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 10:01 AM UTC
*(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.
Etched into every tree
The word:
S U C C E S S)*
I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.
I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.
My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).
Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...
Bells,
Chiming,
Dark
Oubliettes,
Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
*Ding **** ding ****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
seedy motels crowded with undesirables
shooting up
smoking ****
toothless ******** for a fix
welcome to America
home of the brave
and the crack den
what a beautiful country ours is
majestic purple mountains
slick black tar ******
amber waves of grain
skid row and soup kitchens
the struggle to survive
we fight to stay alive
land of the free
but free has hidden fees
free love?
Aids'll stop ya
free health care?
Get out you ****** *******
free speech?
Only if you don't mind mace
Here the dom in freedom means **********
********** of the free
we go through it all like marionettes
glassy eyed and blank faces
our strings pulled by wealthy men
we become older and older until death
and don't forget the debt
that will be your children's problem
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
I remember the first time I **********
I thought I was having a seizure-
or that I had somehow malfunctioned the Matrix
and had broken through
a fold of reality;
some white-noise ladder to greater plains,
throbbing, animal convulsions,
and a peak that only death
could overpower.
I remember crashing into shame
upon my return, versus the smug welcome
of oxytocin and my adult life;
not knowing to what extent
my ***** would dominate my mind;
you know, I cannot write a poem
without noticing my loneliness,
all the ******** I have left behind.
For that moment, in my New Found ******
I was paralysed at the thought of a sober life,
and ever since that moment,
ever since that night,
I have been searching for those higher plains
in the lowest branches of myself.
Now I smoke my fill and redden my eyes
to bleed out old anxieties,
dry up old tears whilst softening scars
that I have collected over years
spent indoors, hiding from danger.
I remember the first time I **********
how it came to me by accident,
a repeated motion of unknown emotions;
the undulations in her breath;
even now I still sit by myself,
and make love out of whatever is left.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
when we were just kids living in Nebraska
running through cornstalks holding hands
where the sun died crazy deaths over the mountains
you were my neighbor
and the bank took our land
i would've never imagined
you living in a whiskey barrel
offering ******** and squawking squirts
giving them away for free
to hideous former cowboys
substituting laughter for anger
intead,
a moment like this:
finding you alone on the banks
of a dull river
shivering,
swinging from a branch
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
You are going to find yourself
Hating everyone.
And it should come as no surprise
That one day you'll pick up smoking
Because that fat ***** you fell for
Thought you looked **** doing it.
Men will crave your lips
Not for kisses but for ********
And you will have to battle them
On every insistence.
You will sleep with a teddy bear,
Human-sized
Well into adulthood
Because there will be nights
That you are so disconnected from the world
That you feel as though you are floating.
You will be sneered at
By mental hospital nurses
At the age of sixteen
As you visit your boyfriend
For your first date
In Good Samaritan hospital.
They will see your youth
And rage inside.
You will waste yourself.
You will die and redeem
Within yourself.
You will fall in love
With a man much older than you
And suddenly
Thirty won't seem
So old at all.
Thirty will seem
Like a world your old soul
Could get lost in.
And you will.
And it will be wonderful.
You will become paranoid.
Walking to church at midnight
With the love of your life,
You will constantly
Be looking over your shoulder.
You will forever
Be looking over your shoulder.
This will become
A necessary hobby.
You will tear down your Beatles posters
And replace them with Wes Anderson ones
Shamelessly.
You will come to a point
Where you hate yourself
In a most incomprehensible way
But you will write a poem
And you will be paid for it
And you will pay your cell phone bill with the money
And you will be successful.
You will have your escape plan
But you will never use it.
You will never need to.
His charm and his wit
And the way his eyes sparkle when he sees you
Will keep you rooted
Even when you are ready
To book it.
You'll be subpoenaed
And you will hate it
And ***** over it
And you will have to stand trial
But life is a trial
And you will win.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
I really miss you, Bella.
I wish you hadn't left.
You taught me to be proud,
that who I am is my own best.
You said we all live
Under the same moon.
Those we vowed to never see,
We would see more than soon.
You taught me kissing's fun
And ******** great
And *** doesn't mean
That you are bound by fate.
You said so many things,
Signed one golden thought,
Packed up with your family
And went to where you sought.
I miss you Bella.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops
and over your legacy you took a swirling a ****
drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid.
Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage
passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade.
You became and overweight bearded *******
weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles
with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to,
like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a ****
in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ********
Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion
the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion
as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be
the next great American wordsmith,
“Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me,
without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between.
Breaking through to the other side of madness
wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues
some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you
a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth.
Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew
but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife.
Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse
so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants
frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm
and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ******
I still love you though, with my heart crossed
dearly dearest quintessential *******
Jim Morrison.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Oh so I guess it was infected
On so many levels
Probably my fault for loving
an angel ****** Scorpio
who gives ******** like a greasy exhaust pipe
who swaps ****** fluid
like a last ditch transfusion for a cure
done in an ally in Mexico
I thought you could save me with your shameless passion
The vibrating underwear at dinner
The dare to straight face in public
You were *****
And you were *****
And I was trying to make a mess
So cleaning myself up might look drastic
You were an adventure I can’t shake
The kind of adventure you can’t catch twice
Until you catch it twice
I have been told
Learning is a change in behavior
Learning is finding ways to not make the same mistake
Over
And over
Clearly
I am still learning
Still infected with
With the self-inflicted wrong decisions
Of loving people who don’t love me back
And filling holes
With the parts of myself that are designed to do that
Hoping mine will be filled too
I’ve put a pillow in my open chest wound
So you might still think it’s safe to lay there
So you won’t hear the heartbeat race of hope
That things won’t hurt so much later
Won’t feel like a film on my skin that doesn’t wash away
When I watch you leave me in the morning
And all I want to do is beg you to stay
Stay and pretend this is real a little longer
I’ve never been one to tear band-aids from wounds quickly
I pick scabs
I have scars
I am ugly
And I am still learning
Still trying different ways
To love healthy
So yeah,
I guess this is infected
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
there is someone on the other side of that camera
watching you
and if they can read your body language
(*bottom lip in mouth, hands ******* an oversized shirt*)
then they can also read everything else
(hair twisted and knotted around itself, tie hanging haphazardly off your neck as you clutch at the pack of cigarettes in your pocket)
you have a hard time hiding these things
it's not that you hadn't enjoyed it, per say
trading ******** in the men's bathroom
back pressed flush against the grimy stall
it's just that you had somehow imagined *** with the man you loved
to be a little more...
glamorous
at night, with the light off, lying next to a warm body
hands that are trying to get into your boxers
you don't push him away
because even though you want to
he's your lover
and you feel like you're supposed to let him
so you do
and when you go to work the next day,
neck and collarbones lined with bruises,
you try to tell yourself
that you enjoyed it
you fail at that
when your co-workers ask you what's wrong
you shrug them off, and tell yourself that you should be blushing
when they congratulate you on finally getting some
it's not that you don't like it, you tell yourself
as you **** him off in the shower at 7 in the morning
it's just that you're too tired to appreciate what's going on
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
i always came over wearing silver and black
and you always wore something purple and insisted it be noticed
even if it wasn't noticeable
but i didn't care.
i used to date boys who cried wolf and kissed poorly
******** in dugouts
high holiday hook ups and lackluster dates
but i don't care.
you bruised my ***** bone
and ego
and surprisingly, my heart
but i hardly care.
or, at least, that's what i keep insisting.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
When I was just a child, they were just a married couple;
Older, middle-aged, nothing distinguishing about them at all.
I loved swimming in their swimming pool,
Until they upsized, to a glitzy neighborhood of rambling,
Ranch-style houses.
And they upscaled, to exotic, foreign vacations.
Brought me back a Hawaiian volcanic stone, with emerald flecks,
A salt and pepper shaker set from Israel.
She was a clothes horse, always kept her figure,
Dressed slinky but classy, for an old babe;
Visibly stood taller, if another woman
Ever complimented her clothing or style-
And they invariably did.
My dad said that when alone with her husband,
That man would brag about daily ********
From his office receptionist, at the end of the workday
Before going home. I was older then, tried to imagine
How the shared exchange could have furthered
Some ancient, nightly excavated ambition?
Alone with her once, my dad said he made an innuendo,
Some playful joke which he had since forgotten the point of,
Probably due to the more stunning reaction it caused.
He had always loved teasing with words,
But he said that she had dropped all suggestion of pretense,
And she had told him then, You couldn't handle it..
He still chuckled about it, long after the fact.
Funny how for all those years, what I remembered seeing
Was a mostly colorless couple
Who always drove large Cadillacs.
And how in the later years, he could only move
While tethered to his oxygen tank,
Though it never hindered his smoking.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
You’re a book
A book with a convoluted plot, sometimes it’s hard keeping up
I’m slowly trying to learn you
I tread ever-so-care-fully
But when you are naked you are much more complaisant
It feels like we’re on the same page
In the penumbral light of my bedroom I climb on top of you and begin to kiss you
Under the sheets it is as if we are pigeons in the eaves, safe and cosy
Two souls coming together via flesh
My hands reach out for your *******
They reach out for love.
I see you in a new light.
I see you waking up with me in the first light of the morning
White bed sheets and sleepy smiles, your hair tousled
Your eyes plain, your lips unrouged
You’re skin is soft
We make love and have breakfast outside.
My muse.
The sun rises too fast
I find myself looking at you,
Perfect white teeth and a symmetrical face.
I’m way too fond of you to notice flaws
But if I did, wouldn’t they just serve to particularise your beauty?
It’s alright this, isn’t it?
This kind of connubial life we’re living.
Words are all I have.
I am a poet and you like my tongue
This very tongue that holds the small space between your thighs and makes you tremble,
This very tongue that, you say, sounds very unAfrican-
Why don’t you write like an African child?
Well, it is because of the way I grew up and the where I grew up and the who I grew up with.
Like that? Does that sound African enough?
The first time I took my t shirt off in front of you, you said I was thin
No, no,
I remember exactly what you called me: tubercular.
You are bold. I like that a lot.
But also, you’re kind of a *****
I am in love with you, the whole of you.
You and your nice smelling hair.
You and your dreamy brown eyes.
You and your half-hearted ********
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
I want to know what goes on
behind those pretty little eyes
before the night has won you over yet again.
I want to know where you sleep
and if there's room enough for me
Is that so bad?
I'm sorry.
I just don't quite know how to say what's been on my mind.
It's no longer the scent of you, but the idea of something swift enough
to knock the wind up out of me
Released like a dandelion's spores to the sun, forever drifting, never certain.
Signals displayed like a backwards highway road sign.
Reduced speed ahead.
Icy Conditions.
Stop.
I get it. Don't think this is linear.
This is as open ended as a tired maze.
a lazy labyrinth.
I've got options.
I've got options!
Not a should have, but a would have.
As I float upon the stream of consciousness, it happens.
Your face in a photo.
My hand through your hair.
Glimpses of images I'll never remember when I need to.
Your breath was hot.
My pupils were huge.
Silence.
Everlasting Silence.
Forever in fifteen.
Beauty in my presence.
You always were quiet just right.
Lost sandals.
Walking with purpose.
Parties.
Empty kids at the table.
********
Rainy Days.
Political ********
A monologue of copied words with meanings applied.
Over music
The soft staccato, the quickening pulse,
the minor key trying to be major, to prove that he's changed, but he just needs a chance.
The song ends diminished, and everyone walks off.
Dejected.
Distraught.
Dying to know why.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC
In a room full of pundits and pud-pullers
I just wanna be the poet.
There’s not a ********* thing
that’s wrong with that either.
No, I won’t be that guy reading “Pride and Prejudice”
just so I can get a handle on the *******
zombie movie that’s coming out.
Give me a Mickey Spillane novel
and a slice of pizza.
Give me a Bukowski poem
and a pork chop.
That’s the problem here,
nobody seems to want to recognize their
base nature.
Nobody wants to admit that they still like *****
and ******** a nice ***
and an amazing pair of blue eyes.
Everyone wants to point out what everyone else
is doing wrong while
hiding behind hashtags and keyboards
like chickenshits.
I’ve had enough of it,
and I’ve narrowed my field of
vision, while widening my perspective
You see, I plan to be the best version
of me that I can be
today
then I’ll do it again tomorrow.
If I knock somebody’s drink in
their lap at some point
in between,
I won’t lose a second’s sleep over it.
I’ll just try to do better on the next pass.
***
-JBClaywell
©2016 P&ZPublications
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
i will give you things.
at first, i will give you honey suckles bound in the locks of auburn hair,
a gentle smile, a refreshing breeze. i will give you monuments dedicated to a single glance, and you will take all of these things with pleasure.
i will give you warm rain, and deep woods, and all the clichés we hear every day but we still love to talk about because we love them, i will give you love like them, like stars showing the dawn their shy bodies, like waves proclaiming all of these things i will give you.
i will give you all forms of love.
i will give you the best possible physical love, i will give you the most elegant touches and the most jarringly inappropriate whispers. yes, i will give you ********
i will give you lessons in art, lessons in cooking, lessons in life. i will give you honesty, and truth, and commitment, and i will give you spellbound nights where all we do is talk about how the philosophers got it all wrong, that Plato was an idiot for saying we could only find death in love, look at us; look at this. i will give you the ability to teach me, i will give you the crescendo of my youth.
i will give you the crescendo of our relationship.
and then, one day, i will give you a little less. i will still give. i will still give you speeches about world events, i will give you the coffee i make in the morning, i will give you touches that aren't as passionate but they are touches nonetheless.
i will give you midnight runs to the store, i will give you medicine for when you are sick and i will give you the ability to nurse me as well.
i will give and i will give and i will give every day, each day & it will be a little less, until one day, i will give you nothing.
i will give you a profound silence, i will give you the absolute void. i will give you a pitch black abyss, nothing at all, and just when you reach the pit of despair, just when you think you've hit the bottom, the bottom will fall out and i will give you less than nothing.
i will give you screams instead of silence. i will give you hands peeled to the bone and bleeding because they have given and given and given and there's nothing less but less. i will give you a broken home, a broken heart, i will give you memories that will anchor to the bottom of your sea & know you will never be able to get rid of them because they are the skeleton of a ship wreck & did you know, in the Mediterranean there are still preserved shipwrecks in the murky depths of that ocean from Grecian times? i will give you these little reminders of mortality.
i will give you regret that sits on an empty shelf collecting dust particles. i will give you a taste for whiskey because it allows you to languish. i will give you the worst kind of wounds, the kind that time does not give a **** about, the kind that stars even pray over. i will give you a little less faith, i will diminish your ability to trust your instincts. i will give you complete and utter devastation, i will give you repeated cliches on their backs: hurricanes, tornados, tsunamis. i will crack your collar bone, i will crack your skull. i will leave you as an abandoned house, worn down and empty.
i will give you everything, all of these things, and more; if i give you my hands right now.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
As a child my lips kissed
Every honeysuckle my arms could reach.
I believed,honestly and truly,
That if I ****** every sweet drop out
I’d find happiness hidden there.
Every bush was bare by the time I left,
I was still searching as I became a teenager,
I search now, not in plants,
In people. I believe I can find my happiness,
By pressing my lips against others,
Filling myself with their energy and filling my mouth
With sweetness are not so different.
I haven’t seen a honeysuckle bush in years,
But every now and again,
The familiar taste is on my tongue.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
You can make changes, for example, to burn the hunger for marriage, your demonic persecution fills you with light and says: "I respect the gift of fire, if you are a great man and you have laws." Everything is invisible in Huntsville ***** Jorges and you becoming mothers. I said that heaven does | not look like a donkey because I want to live in the tree of life. The last wedding of true emotion. In ancient times, the voice of the dog was the food for the prostitutes of the devil and the common ********** of Rick. A tall man who had me in the shade like a dangerous dog in the north. Loss of life in the rural areas. Kiss your crazy questions, lose your hands and feet and win the heart of your Friends, Scorpio Pink in the United States, donkeys, foxes, moons, moons, moons ... Jorges gives you a nice gift, you can make changes, for example, to burn the hunger for weddings ... he said: Respect the fire, the gift. However, if you are a great man and a ********** You have many laws for prostitutes and you have played the ********** for Mark in all the | invisible things of Huntsville. You and Jorges become the myth of a mother, the hands of the past, the money in the fire that I put in the shade; a tall man who looks like a dangerous dog in the north. The loss of lives in rural areas is the loss of their crazy questions, their hands and their dogs at the foot of looting conquer the hearts of their friends in the United States, the donkey and the moon. Give a good gift opportunity. He is able to make changes, for example, to ignite the hunger of marriage, the demonic harassment filling you with light, थे smells the eyes of a dog on the ship, he said: I respect the fire. The gift of the flames. However, if you are a big winner of र ा or because of the laws and changes that were imposed on them, they have played as Mark's prostitutes in Huntsville, all the invisible things are | ******* and you become a mother. I just said. The sky is not spinning at all, *** because I want you to live with the love of the tree of life with the man who came out of the shadow of the tree if there is no conflict and the city is in crisis. The last marriage of witches changes in the fireplace. The friction will be the real enthusiasm. In ancient times, the sound of the dog was the food of the devil, and a ********** is common to Rick. I stayed in the shade talking to a young woman's tree. The long man who dreams of the planet is in serious trouble. It looks like a dangerous dog in the north bay of the brain. There is a loss of life in rural areas. Kiss your crazy questions. The hands and feet of Laura and Susanne win the hearts of friends and colleagues, Scorpio Pink is in the United States of the ****** of *** and Moon, Luna and Luna giving the good gift of twin ********
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
When you said when you said I heard what you said..
I knew that y'all did it's how y'all would click..
The joy in the air the mess of the mess.
I lurk on the stairs of a conversation
My hands know the feeling when you grab the thunder, lighting comes first when I saw you smile.
It's a deep whole of lying wonders,
Fingers go only with satisfaction.
With y'all Laughter sounds taped backwards.
Shaft speaks to shaft lust speaks to mattress, your door was open to your closet as I walk up alittle more in this friendship.. You said something but you stopped.
You said "sometimes I wonder if men do better blowjobs..bro Rico he.........."
As I keep talking to not blow the candles off your cake. But how can I judge you when I grabbed thunder just to taste the rain..
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
An apartments the size of a grave
and just as expensive. It costs a life
to be buried on Avenue A.
Two girls reunite in their street corner booth
where many nights have been spent confiding
about boys, the plausible deniability
of taxicab ******** flights home over
one bridge or another.
She's just returned from a semester in Africa.
The unencumbered smiles beaming from
the children's faces linger like a sunburn.
Her friend is agonizing over a guy who believes in her
wholeheartedly. She commands him like a drone
with the send button on her phone.
She asks her friend if she saw the article in the Times
about women in Afghanistan who die for their poetry?
Is it still warring over there? the friend says.
Her laugh is ambushed by a new feeling, something like
regret at having allowed herself to be wrapped
in the personality of her dresses for so many years.
First thing when she got home she pulled her grandmother’s old fur
out of storage and wrangled the antlers onto the cat
but the smile didn't come. Tonight, we're going dancing.
The boys are meeting us there. Does that work?
She nods. A button is pushed and a car carries them
to a warehouse in Bushwick which twenty years ago
was a wonderful crack house. Oh, it's so good to see you again!
She laughs and pretends she is living the night like it's her last
the whole time thinking about a young girl
across the world speaking her poem
into a telephone so someone else can hear it
before the line goes dead.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
There’s a girl with scars and flaws, lots of imperfections and imprisoned by her thoughts.
Her Hopes are gone, she’s judged by the world and fooled by Love.
She has made huge mistakes and tried to fit in this world that can never be understood
She has messed up, made out with couple of guys She has no feelings for. Well, her life is hell.
Funny right? A girl that appears to be all about the books and God but she chases boys all around like a dog freak chasing his lost dog
She pressured by her peers to get into things too quick, “Are you always going to keep looking like a nerd and reading all these dumb *** books? It’ll will just make you stupid” they say. She’s stuck between listening to her inner self or opening her mind and ears to her peers
Well she wants to be like most teenage girls out there, having fun, exploring the world, getting the feeling of giving ******** getting heads, getting kissed so hard that you even forget that problems exist, talking to this one dude that drives you crazy but her mind is far from ***
“Nobody would just wanna kiss and hug a girl with that kind of curves, or give her head or get ******** from her without having *** This life is not a movie, you either play well or play yourself” they say to her
It’s hard to make a choice when all of them pretend to LOVE her, so she falls in their traps one at the time
She’s not who she wants to be but she wants to fit in. She’s not reading books anymore but she’s reading the minds of guys.
She gets hunted every time so she tries to runaway from this lifestyle and find a hide out. Her life is like the movie Bird Box, whenever she opens her eyes, the past hits her hard in the face and she dies from the inside every time.
Worthless seems her life, she’s always worry about What the world thinks of her. She’s losing herself trying to please others, she’s slowly changing.
Her pillows are wet with the river that pours down her eyes at night. This agony is so sweet to swallow when her friends are around but at night, she realizes that the pain doesn’t digest easily, it’s too big to go down her throat.
She’s confused, her mind is full of whole lotta “why if’s” She’s hunted by the flaws, reality hits her in the face every time. All she ever wanted was to explore the world of Boys but there are lots of thorns and scorpions
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 9:55 AM UTC