"dowsed" poems
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
Her eyes are the stained glass broken from confession.
Her withered hair buried beneath dirt gravel.
Her forbidden mind fosters slobs of crazy.
Her mind is a battlefield of Trojan takeover.
Her bare feet remember sacred ground of tainted memories.
Her ears embrace the screech of still weather.
Her grapefruit mouth juiced with venom is tasteless.
her sharp egg shelled fingertips woven from braids of straw.
Her body is the Earthquake ruptured by the vibrations of collision.
Her thoughts trespass gated abandonment
Her firework pen exploding with gunpowder secrets.
Her gunpowder secrets deterring the sanity.
Her cracked lips cobweb from silenced words.
Her puppet stringed smile puts on a show to the audienced world.
Her soul has been toyed with by the cynical Fates.
Her echo without direction is a heartbroken drum line.
Her armor has been dowsed with sharp, penetrating words.
Her skin has painted stories interior to her porcelain frame.
Her soulless story can be dry swallowed by rocks.
Her tears bleed of whispered screams.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
the sport of cricket
is no longer a clean game
bribes and corruption
have dowsed it in shame
***** money has walked
onto the cricket pitch
and it does so give
the sporting pundits a severe stitch
ball tampering by the players
and umpires being paid off
these disrespectful actions
causing cricket lovers to fulsomely scoff
the game of cricket has been
so badly sullied over the past few years
and it does so make the fans
feel less incline to cheer
cricket has a grubby tarnish
upon it these days
the ICC should be disinfecting
the game's wicked ways
devotees of cricket are not
a happy lot
they are waiting for the wicket
to be cleansed of all the ***** rot
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene
It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…
The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…
Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar
So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
Golden sun sets on the concert house;
The hellish day, it’s now been dowsed.
Asphalt night and onyx skies,
Crowds and crowds of endless size.
Yet it rises on the wooden stage;
Burning, scorching, lunar rage.
Curtains of lapis suspended,
For a show that’s highly splendid.
The bands, they take up their instruments,
Checking function with much diligence.
The azure slides, the crowd’s boisterous,
Let’s send them home filled and joyous!
Strum and strike, music sounds and hikes.
Mystically does it flow, no break or pause.
Number after number, avalanche of applause.
Now they’re screaming and whistling! Yikes!
The night wears on, and sapphires glisten,
In skies of turquoise and warm transition.
Marmalade sunrise, it goes on and on!
But nowhere in the hall is there a yawn.
The crowds recede like biped cattle,
An endless, drunken, random rabble.
The next noon, the hall’s still defiled.
Music echoes in their heads, meanwhile.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
my words
might wash up
against your shore
in torn up shreds
each scribbled letter faded
obscured by time
obscured by rippling waves
that thrash and tear
each piece left vague
dowsed in mystery
and a lingering
a longing
to be read
soon
maybe
next time
i'll be mature enough
to put them in a bottle.
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 2:00 PM UTC
I feel you slipping away my love
when the night is cold and still.
When the years rush in and stand quietly by my bedroom door,
quiet and mute with sorrowful eyes with shoulders drooped in resignation.
I feel you slipping away my love as I sit here.
As the reality glimmers through and shines upon this page,
the silent rage now unspoken for want of reason or assignment.
Broken and wasted like a crystal vase with roses strewn across the floor.
I feel you slipping away my love as I grasp feebly at the strings of the beautiful bouquet
that rises just beyond comprehension and wafts gently on the summer night
to lite tattered and unwilling in far places unseen by our desires.
Embers softly glowing and now knowing the end has now begun.
Years upon years of clawing at our fears that this was not to be.
A blazing fire dowsed with strife and ire ,no air to stoke the flame.
No time to play the game. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.
I cry quietly in the glow of poor reason. I feel you slipping away my love.
I feel us slipping away now and forever. The shell does just as well to crumble.
A castaway sits on the sandy shore knowing full well that rescue will find
his molding husk frozen in time and empty in the continuum. His bones bleached past.
The grinning mask of irony and frozen regret.
My love our reach exceeded our grasp but youthful willfulness and hope was the rope.
The rope that we clung to and weathered the battering breezes as we closed our eyes
to reason after all love will find a way ?.Even love was not enough, but we knew deep down.
I feel you slipping now with eyes wide open.
We watch as the chasm widens and shrug our shoulders.
Calloused hands tired of trying now. Weary eyes dry from crying now.
willfully stuck and denying now. I feel you pull away.
I will wonder the desert parched with regret of this I have no doubt.
But deep down I knew this. Hoping against hope. still.
There will be no other to take your place. Who could?.
We gave hope it's chance.
Once we did dance.
Life became duty.
We fought off the wolves.
We turned. We forgot.
We grew apart while joined at the hip.
How funny.
How sad.
Duty bound as love unwound.
No us time.
I feel you slipping, slipping.
Goodbye.
My.
Love.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 8:45 AM UTC
I was born in terrorism.
I grew up in earthquakes, tsunamis and rebels:
in shouting blond girls with red eyes and pixel
smiles.
I was born in blurred faces and mute
voices pulling at my
eyes until I dripped the clotted
tears of a thousand soldiers, or refugees,
or children.
I was atomized, crunched
into small seeds and scattered
across a desert field.
Someday a flower would grow there,
budded from the bones
of my being and
flowered into a fiery,
empty marigold-- dripping
gold and embers across a thirsty desert,
where the shout
of the civilians was distant
enough to ignore.
I was sodomized,
conceived in the roar--
of the rumbling wave- crashing over-
pulsing through her thrashing cave.
I watched my flower whither
and blister with the deliberate count
down and the glare of the
floodlights-- dowsed in water and soil--
or some semblance of the two.
I was born in the blood
of my mother and died in the
womb of the world.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Ich fühle mich wie wir in einem früheren Leben erfüllt
(I feel like we met in a former life)
Auch…where are my manners
English, right
I feel like we met not in this life
But before
And by “met” I mean loved
I have no idea how
We share common things
Und our eyes meet whenever we think the other isn’t looking
Maybe I’m going crazy under Hitler’s hand
I don’t feel like I’m in the right state of mind
But I feel like we’ve loved
Once upon a time
Have I met you before
Because you seem super familiar
I think you were my neighbor before I moved
Because I remember the pretty girl
Next door with brown hair
We played in my back yard and pretended to be aliens
Then made macaroni art
That’s us….on a hill….holding hands
You fell and got a boo boo on your elbow
And I put a dinosaur band-aide on it
We road bikes to the park and we swinged
Remember my best friend Johnny? His birthday party?
Well you were there and I got cake in your hair and you cried…
I gave you a gift on valentines day
It was a flower I put in a purple box
my mom planted in my yard
And later she yelled at me and put me in the corner for digging it up
I shared my dairy queen milkshake with you
Even though It was chocolate and that’s my favorite flavor
And I was really surprised because you said that was your favorite too
Do you remember…
No…?
Oh okay sorry.
You can come over and play with some of my toys if you want
I like your shoes…
I met her in a past life,
In February, new grass reaching through snow
This funeral only reminds me of
Vibrations in my spine when she’d leave
Symphony strings come in
Crushing all my Ambien
Recreating Adam and Eve
I could feel my disgusting old heart pulse
When I became her.
When she took over me.
I remember
Watching life go by like movies
Ich erinnere mich (I remember)
Dancing in ballrooms to records
I remember
Young bodies in *** Minds dowsed in ecstasy
I remember you
Our dying won’t stop euphoria like this
It’ll just be put on hold for a while
Emotions becoming a straight beaming line
Because I’ll meet her again
All we’ll do is change the date and time
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:17 AM UTC
Last night communing with the,
much more than anything,
but still not quite,
echoing in worlds beyond this one,
if it pierces,
empties out carefully
What is it that is never quite,
intact or playfully,
ask the sages to reconsider,
paths to the sun,
Wonderful it will be to reach,
apexed or transcedent,
finger tips dusty or removed,
which is the endpoint subtracted,
faces that are familiar,
but are no more,
bottle green,
they are everything but sad,
dowsed in caffeine again,
heart is drowning in,
stolen courage,
the day passes away,
lost and fragmented.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
This is how an angel dies,
a strange temptation caresses me;
and I scream my hatred of the one who created me.
I'm lost in the dark,
littered with bruises that even I fail to recognize.
Constantly I will blame myself,
while convincing others that I don't need them.
I say things like,
"I have done it on my own,
I need to do it on my own."
The smoke quietly rises on the spokes of which I stand.
The brighter ones tell me of my guilt,
of why I don't deserve what I yearn for.
So once again I am a little girl,
reaching out to all of the appealing men before me;
so desperate for their attention.
Silently I go up in flames,
just as urgently I am dowsed with water.
hastily I fall to my knees,
begging for redemption from the one who created me.
this is how an angel dies
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
Trapped inside a mongrel's mind,
twisted, turning, lurid, divine
Aimlessly wandering halls, dimly lit
by candles on the walls
where spiders like to sit
where I come across a case
wooden and dusty
filled with books neatly spaced
the spines filled with foreign words
and stood up by tigers
either mis-colored or rusty
Examining the books with gentle care
when something caught my eye's corner
with a glance to the left and with great rise
was the grand spiral stair, where
splayed meekly on the rise of the walls
was the blood of men and a statue of great size
A serpent, fangs dowsed in rustic red blood
and tail curled around with eyes beading above
seemed to smile with a large bulge along its golden belly
With shudder I wondered what beast sated the statues hunger
My feet, frozen in wonder of serpents message
did not venture forward as my eyes read the ****** paint
For, as my eyes gazed at the dried blood, I noticed sound so faint
Drip. Drop. Drip. Down the rail of the grand old stair
dripped water onto the marble floor, puddling there
And in the pool of the water, a message did reflect
The symbols were foriegn, yet I read them anyway
How, I couldn't suspect and who could say
Even as I muttered the words I backed away in respect
*This is the easy way to heaven,
or so say the men where holywater's bestowed
But this is where the Serpent herds his devon,
You may climb the stairs, but down his throat you'll go*
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
The Twin Souls speak to me,
During the desert suns and
Tranquil moons,
In its greatest oracle,
They tell me
‘Save yourselves or
Remain unsaved’.
They took me to Egypt,
On the magic carpet that
Was dowsed in my room-
Some may call it a rug-
But for the Twins,
They flew during majestic
Nights
Seamless heights.
Nights I look back,
On how my twin was created,
How our paths had crossed
And how lucky
Even blessed we’d been.
Days I look forward,
With my twin and I
Drenched in Kelly Green in our ceremony of
accomplishments
Or seduced by the sun,
Escaping Methodist systems,
And enchanted by esques’ in the forest
Other nights,
My twin was gone,
An empty burden I felt
Swell my chest.
On those nights,
I prayed to the Souls to which
They promised
to keep us together
Some times the Twins advise me,
‘Do not set yourself on fire
to keep others warm’
And
‘Other people are not medicine’-
That is, except for the Twin Souls.
I taught my twin
Lessons of life,
And she taught me
Lessons of gratitude.
I must admit,
We were both a bit
Damseled,
A bit Distressed
[Still dressed to impress]
When time has run out,
Hope is lost,
Spirits are killed,
Demons are in disguise,
And hell breaks loose
I pray to the Twin Souls,
To hold us eternally whole
In the wake of the full moon
Because my TWIN SOUL,
Will never escape
The Encased LOVE and PURSUITS
Of my HEART
For she is a true work of
Art.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
We stare at each other while in an
Under-rehearsed waltz around the coffee table
Keeping us an armwidth apart.
Stiff as oak, we resist the breeze from the window,
Tensing with the smallest tremors in our roots.
Touching our fingers will let the dominos fall-
Your jeans taking off my socks ripping off your shirt pulling
On my bra straps- I walk toward the couch,
You, the window.
I start to wonder how your hair looks hung to dry, sweaty,
Over an ached and trembling brow
When you hang your hat on the chair.
You tell me the evening weather is pleasant
While my thoughts are in our hands, clenching,
Longing for skin and breath in grasp.
My eyes light a wildfire on your neck.
Every step is flint stone and steel wool.
Can I take off your coat
Welds the air between us stiff, baking
And begging to be dowsed.
The floor ripples under your extended palm.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
The stench of battery acid in the morning
The slippery lubricant of littered snakeskin on the floor
Trash that once found liberation, salvation in the motion of its use
Now limp, lifeless, devoid
Abandoned without muscle.
The shadow of our wicked forms, braced against the balcony edge
Nerves alight, take fire. The steepest bet, a wager of the deranged sense
And that smell. It hangs in the air, still
Engulfs you as the animal sense is heightened. Without reason, all is pleasure,
All is primitive.
Out on the veranda, Diana dances. Part impulse, part stimulant. Her dimples stretching wider, farther apart as continents. Her hips convulsing
Man with the long hair, "You burn you burn"
Oh mother, we were created equally. Together in one cruel, carbonate mass of malcontent motives, of wicked intent. Selfishness attracts selfishness.
We are but a refrigerator door full of strange magnets, gleaming. Your southern fingers,
Dancing a slow tango down my spine. Your grip, lowering, sweaty and deliberate
Oh viper.
The texture of freshly cut grass and ***** crusted over bare toes. All smells of peppermint,
Bitter citrus flower.
Woke up in the morning, dowsed in kerosene
Rose petals sticking to the roof of my mouth
"There is no heaven, no hell," he said. Only us.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 1:27 PM UTC
**** my heart, inject me with purple darts
painted by Da Vinci murdered by a work of art
breaking bars,
jammed my hands through broken shards.
****** by eternity,
the monster that came back from shaking mars.
doomed and colossus, middle of the mosh pit
I live for the funerals and party with the Gothics.
Tasting the hatred, who knew love was the flavor
cries as time flies, spits in the night sky
boiling our emotions, our love drowned in the tide.
dowsed in turpentine, serpents hiss down our spines,
lasers set to **** ideas are nautiluss
the precious rapture precedes to rage on our kind.
The sun becomes the hottest
when power becomes modest.
reality for the fiction
more gifts for the gifted
everyday lost until the power levels shifted
weird, lost, and strange
most recognized of misfits.
killing off the normal to become different
one more guest to become a witness.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
You slipped right through my fingers
(I never really had you any way)
I could swear up and down you don't care for me. It makes things so much easier.
Flashback to you kissing my freckled cheek while I'm asleep. Telling me words I've save for later. I'll turn them over and over in my head like worry stones.
Flashforward to you sitting with me in a crowded place. "We're just friends," you say evenly. I try my best not to squirm. Because we were never just anything.
I knew I'd pay the price for this. But who was I to give up a body that fit so well into mine?
You dowsed my ribs in gasoline when you first spoke words of your affection. You consistently threw lit matches at me.
Now you recoil and Jesus Christ, how do I begin to put myself out?
Do I even want to?
You show me a match you've saved for later. I don't know if able to reconstruct myself for the hell of it just to watch it burn later
Don't think I wasn't destructive before you. I am, and I will be infinitely. I am thinking of how my smoke built up in your lungs. Exhale now. Doing what's best for all involved parties.
"Do you know what it was like being around you, knowing I couldn't hold you?"
In that moment I'm certain somewhere in another life I would have loved you. Because all I ever wanted was the kind of romance I could write about it. The kind of sadness and longing that settles behind your ribs. If it had been a book I would've dog eared us and wept. But this is my life, real life and I can't just this back on the shelf.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 4:29 AM UTC
If every poet wants to be loved why do they need every feeling but love everything that is essential becomes contradictory find every word in the dictionary to send our message fully infused With the subsequent substance with a enveloping past that you give power to with each glance a symbiotic connection hungry for attention a powerful grip with feelings of strong misguided blinded moral film that covers your skin irresistible until you come back to your writing and you realize what you just wrote dig deep down and see your true depth in a paradox of perspectives thoughts bounce off waves of reflecting inception overloading my cornea flood of images I spill into text what's the imprint that was left try so hard to fit in thinking they're excluding you when it turns out I'm really excluding you corrupted excess of expression poisoning cycle of nervous thought of my inner dialogue separate me from a clear view with the greifing fog try to hide try to distract but never dodge three the highs and lows even and odds I always see the effect just hopelessly blind to the cause shocking withdrawls lost in the in flames dowsed a brave heart with callouses made of cowardice after everything a poet really does just want to be loved....
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
A simple fire,
Dowsed in the flammable decisions of a simple man,
Even the act of putting his words onto paper gives him the narcissistic relief of being closer called an artist, to himself, by himself,
He sees faces daily that are like ghosts now to the simple man whose mind meanders and thoughts get foggy,
Hours go by like seconds in his catatonic state,
Everything he does is a simple man’s choice where input is minimized and outcomes are swiftly forgotten,
Where memories from years ago bleed into what happened yesterday or the day before,
Each experience becomes an island,
Waking up with no connections,
Just an oceans worth of uncertainty,
Like a composer who hears the music of his orchestra for the first time and, oblivious, leads them into crescendo with a simple man’s insincere talents,
Absent, in many things, he tries to live as comfortably as he can with routine becoming a safety blanket that itches like hell in the middle of the night but still he manages to sleep most of his days away,
Every regret for everything he could be doing but isn’t,
Everything he shouldn’t be doing but is,
Lives on his scalp and the insides of his decaying cheeks,
Maybe it’s all just the summer heat getting to him.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
Theres a sickness inside
a false idea
that wants to be nursed
by the same hands thats wretched me from the truth
the truth
is my home
I could be locked into a room with mothers warm linen
clutching you around me
but theres the wild
as it was never strained from me
and it makes me want to overthrow
the comfort
the security of what is that was never materialized
I want free-free-free-dom
I can accept the discomfort
like wet clothes
holding me like a heavy hostage as I roam
I want freedom, I want mobility
because deep inside of me, I know the truth, without it needing to be performed
so much so that it haunts me
every time you kiss me
even in my dreams
dowsed in the warmth
struck with the urge to pull back from a burning flame
as it encircles around my soft flesh
my hard peircing soul
wants to run from the devils gold
so dont you l-l-l-ove me
love me love me
love me
I am free
but the bars of my heart strings push you aside
like a werewolf
my instinctual nature has me tied
in the wilderness
I go back and forth
on the roads that will bring me further from you
when I feel my dreams
consuming all that I see
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Dig a deep hole
bury me
shallow grave
I will not die
my soul
not a slave
little tree
grows
mighty
and brave
roots barely cover
with earth and with snow
torrential flood rains
an cold winds that blow
as Little tree pains that
her roots they still grow
unending rootstocks
take ahold of our root
grow firmest oak trees
out beyond stars
out past the seas
down we be sleeping
veins they be seeping
joy we be reaping
our secrets lay keeping
a love ever deepening
a dowsed
river vein
my roots not be waned
I bend
stretch my limbs out,
twisting and turning
wood not for burning
far as earth goes
roots wrap around
all that is found
Dig a deep hole
back to the sky
out to the sea
tears death does cry
dig a deep hole
cannot bury me
infinite stars
past galaxies
protect you from wind
my trunk will not break
shelter
cover from sun
roads that we take
Dig a deep hole
as far as above
lay me inside
find eternal love.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
Slowly the day is dowsed by night
as the clumsy sun trips over the horizon
and is gone from sight
The swallows morph into their darker side
and screeching fill the twilight skies
in fear all creatures retreat and hide
Silence falls heavy covered in soot
none stir except for the owl’s mournful hoot
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
as we're celebrating
with family and friends
on Christmas day
give a thought to nations
who are in the fife
of a destructive flay
there will be no peace
all harmony unkempt
the tones of happiness
in these lands exempt
munitions reining down
terror in every street
the frightened war weary
caught in a violent cleat
the wailing of innocent children
the grieving heart of a mother
humanity lost in the woods
the planet's brotherhood in smother
and the joys of Christmas
we'll have to share
yet there will be places on our orb
dowsed with pain and despair
Syria and Iraq
those trouble riven territories
where there is an ongoing
legacy of animosities
merry and mirthful
shall be our Christmas day
but let us not forget war torn countries
far beyond our homeland's bay
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
Dowsed in deep darkness
You, love, were and is my sun
'Til in blinding light.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Theres a sickness inside
a false idea
that wants to be nursed
by the same hands thats wretched me from the truth
the truth
is my home
I could be locked into a room with mothers warm linen
clutching you around me
but theres the wild
as it was never strained from me
and it makes me want to overthrow
the comfort
the security of what is that was never materialized
I want free-free-free-dom
I can accept the discomfort
like wet clothes
holding me like a heavy hostage as I roam
I want freedom, I want mobility
because deep inside of me, I know the truth, without it needing to be performed
so much so that it haunts me
every time you kiss me
even in my dreams
dowsed in the warmth
struck with the urge to pull back from a burning flame
as it encircles around my soft flesh
my hard peircing soul
wants to run from the devils gold
so dont you l-l-l-ove me
love me love me
love me
I am free
but the bars of my heart strings push you aside
like a werewolf
my instinctual nature has me tied
in the wilderness
I go back and forth
on the roads that will bring me further from you
when I feel my dreams
consuming all that I see
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC