"duvets" poems
my mind is filled
with beautiful snapshots
as numerous as the stars,
thousands of which
have illuminated my darkest skies
and lulled me to rest
on restless nights
i have seen
lengths of sorrow quenched
by duvets of summer rain,
oceans of love
poured into empty hearts
and the hope of a new dawn
all i have seen,
all the grace i have held
in my undeserving hands,
all the contagious grins,
all the precious little moments
and moments that have moved mountains,
all the miracles, all the love, all the joy
all of these,
all of the bright colors
that have painted my path thus far,
pale in comparison
to the sun that will rise
above tomorrow’s horizon
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
porridge with syrup
duvets & long lies
crime novels, tea steam
she sleeps as the leaves die
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
we are often taught, to be careful of the monsters.
From a very young age, they were what we hid from, under our duvets.
but who was to know, all those years ago, that we are the monsters, and the monsters are us.
He is the monster, that only wants you for ***
She is the monster that doesn't see your worth;
They are the monsters that make you feel life is not worth living;
And we are the monsters, that corrupt society.
Although these monsters may make us feel worthless, we must not forget the worst monster of them all.
You are the monster.
You are the monster that doubts your dreams;
You are the monster that allows failure to succeed;
You are the monster who thinks you are worth nothing;
You are the monster, to make him use you;
You are the monster, who burnt your own worth;
You are the monster, that wants to commit your own ******
You are the monster, that corrupts society.
But why? whoever said monsters can't be good?
You can also be the monster who is kind;
You can be the one who knows their worth;
You can be the one who reaches their dreams;
You can be the monster, who continues, despite the failures;
You are amazing.
Be the good monster.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
His body lost temperature as he pressed himself against the chest of hers, seducing her with his love.
With his sleepy **** voice, he hums her romantic morning lullabies.
The gray walls of the room soon embosomed with gleaming hearts of their beauteous lust and speedy soft breaths, leaving nothing more but powder blushes of crimson on her flowery cheeks in the springtime dawn.
The honeyed lust in the veins lit the bodies of two lovers like candles into eternal flames of romance.
Under the chocolate brown duvets,
Milky fragrances of the tea dances along the bare hands of two lovers,
while he serves breakfast on bed to her in an old-fashioned way.
Bleak morning mist tango around the vitreous skins of scratched windows,
as fat hummingbirds' tinkling giggles paint beyond the nature's smiley meadows,
sending a major abundance of lovable freedom and glee to the people.
In the bathtub,
Velvety calyx of dreamlover rose flows smoothly through the silk water.
They shower each other and let warmth grasp their naked body.
He kissed her dancing soul of chasms out
and tie uncountable amount of butterfly knots to her pancake stomach.
His abilities of heart possessions had captured the universe's breath.
*Nothing has changed since day number one, everything is iridescent.
Everything is swimming in a magical pool of scarred perfections.*
As the sun sets to the west,
The undarkened nightfall sings lulling melodies and let its harmonic fire burn the skies.
The shadows of their love whirl out unstoppable romance that vanished away void hopes and pain.
The lover's spirits echo and echo into spring gorges and dashing rivers,
Feeding darkness with lucent fragments of light.
Oh they were only two humans in love...
Or only a size of two negligible lovedust in the mystical galaxies...
But their endless love never fails to deluge the world with drizzling tears.
A facile spark of romance can be an amazing set of fireworks that creates indiscernible fruitful happiness.
Who in the world could resist this unpredictable power of their spingtime love?
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
On the floor of the river styx, frogs burrowing peer over muck duvets to watch me press like a violet between the cookbook pages of the water and the land. I went overboard-
I am addicted to the darkness between worlds.
Somewhere above me, I see the moon. She doesn’t try to warn me, she doesn’t bother reminding me that I can’t breathe. Heavy currents like snakes blur her face into fractured crystal tears that wash me over with sweet exasperation.
Sedated by the salt toward the other side, where the ferryman flips my coin and hums a tune without words about all rivers rushing toward the sea.
He doesn’t ask me why I chose this route, just grins a toothless grin
And winks
And tosses my coin into the water
without
So much
As a wish.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
My friends
Write of lovers they miss
Everyday.
I don't.
I write
Of a knight in shining armor
Who has
So peacefully rescued me
From
Terrifying,
Fire-breathing,
All-nighters.
It pains me
That in these next few days
Away from his embrace
I am left
Staring at his weaponry:
Hot dog pillows
Duvets
Comforters.
With them,
He's won many battles.
But now I'm back here,
Locked up in this tower of
Unfinished requirements.
The essays
Have destroyed the stairwell.
Lab reports
Have blocked up my doors
And he left me,
Sleep left me
A damsel in distress
With caffeine and homework
Running in my bloodstream.
I peek out of my window,
Stare at the ground below,
Still not a sign of Sleep anywhere.
My friends
Write of lovers they miss
Everyday.
I don't.
I write of one I miss
Every night.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
They try and make
Their subtle gazes
As quiet as possible
They're in love
And know things about each other
Whispered in ears
In the crowded morning sunshine
And secrets shared in the shade of the afternoon
Tepees made of duvets in the shadows of night
Lovers be ******
Because they are granted the wishes
Of hopeless God's and Goddesses.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
Remind me that
one day
I will visit the planet
Zog
Where sleepy people
parade in duvets
instead of clothes.
Good morning
to them means nothing.
Sleepy people come from Zog.
Is it where rude animals live?
That make a mess with
food in their dish
oh sorry they eat
off the floor.
Spend their time
distributing hairs to
every corner of a room,
Then they go in the
shoe cupboard and
choose the nicest shoe
and goes to the toilet on
the sole of it. Nice.
A dog comes from Zog.
Moths
their one purpose in life
to spread eagle on your car window
with a shcoked look.
Or drape themselves to the grill
on the front of your car.
They come from Zog.
The postman that looks
at the address on the envelope
looks at the number on the
front door.
Do they match?
No they do not.
It is next door's mail.
But hey ** just for the thrill of it
it goes in the letterbox.
That postman comes from Zog.
The teaspoon from the cutlery drawer
having its daily laugh.
Refusing to comform
wont go with the rest, oh no
It stays in the washing up water
and tries to abscond down the plughole.
Teaspoons are from Zog.
Here endeth my rant.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Experience true love and proper death
in a single moment lasting longer than the average breath.
Feel every emotion under the fake-tan-sun-lamps
for the price of a walk and the Queen's head upon a stamp.
Talk about conversations you had in corridors with ex-girlfriends
with a clouded look back, blurred by your own camera lens.
Preach your side of the debate, recite Wikipedia pages,
listen and retaliate dangerously with more stolen words.
Holding hands under bedsheets and duvets and borrowed blankets
means absolutely nothing, like rain falling around those dog days.
Hot days and cold days and no days and everydays are the final lap,
finish, breath, throw up bits of sick and leave the stadium lonesome.
Walk away when the light is right
so the rings around your eyes look like jovial creases
instead of broken bits of I didn't last long pieces.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
You can pour love completely
into a wine glass body
Write heart wrenching verse
pure soul poetry
but when you are beat,
dead,
done,
exhausted
weary
the lover beside you
becomes dismantled
and arranged into parts
of burden
temporarily.
Pointy elbows drilling into spine.
Rock hard knees buckling thighs.
Razor sharp toenails
scour
ankles and calf.
Sprawled limbs
invading your bed half.
Thieves of warm sheets
and cosy duvets.
Gurgling,
snorting roars
snoring,
snoring,
snoring away.
Or teeth grinding
piercing anvil,
hammer and drum.
When extremely tired
Only then your love isn't as fun
as and hour ago
when limbs, torso and flanks
eagerly woven
discarding blankets,
But that was then.
Sleep has a stronger lure
and retorting with your own elbow
or *** shunt
just can't end the snore.
Crying for snoozeville,
you can't take any more.
Suddenly,
a choked snuffle
then blessed silence
as they roll back onto their side
And you sigh, “I love you,”
But grateful for the stop
Better off with bunk beds,
one can still go on top.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
I propose that we...
Snuggle up under our duvets,
Call in sick to wherever, whoever,
Shut the bedroom door,
and write way too much, all day long.
Post it all, no cheating, no deleting,
Let's do it!
I'm not joking.
Into bed with us all,
This is the right day
For a write day.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Even the deepest blue couldn't make you feel as though it's all okay
Strangers arms grasping at your empty bones
Filling the gaps in your soul
Cars racing past the window on dark cold nights
Leaving you silent on grey balconies
The city is busy and you're alone
Smoking your cigarette
Hoping that chemicals will be better than crying
Blasting music and dancing in your skinniest little dress because at least the mirror loves you
Ripping up photos of forgotten memories
Memories that broke you and shattered your heart like a glass piggy bank
Wrapping lonely duvets around your broken silhouette
Your body curls and your heart races and your senses spike because being alone is horrifying without someone by your side
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
i'm drinking
out of
the bottle
on a tuesday
and i have
to ****
but i'm
glued to
this chair
and the keys
are glued
to my fingertips.
the room smells
like cheep wine
and fresh
duvets
i can't seem
to leave
but i always
find a way to
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
comfort was a long road that came to a dead
end abruptly. happiness and companionship
left suddenly with the clutch of solace. he
was left standing there in the rain, all senses
disdained. a seeing man now build to ease,
seeing the fellowship of someone that ties
knots in your throat; turns your obscurities
to seize.
distraught
at this very moment the quest for clenches
to console surrounded him with the ignorance
his state of mind was unable to control.
seeking and searching began in the
bedsheets. he found loneliness and
regret; mistake after mistake, temporary impassion
chose what risks to take. drowning in seas of
duvets, suffocation on the stench of
frictioned flesh and smothered in the salinity
pasted on each others skin like the warpaint of
ephemeral happiness, he searched down an
unsearchable road and lost his direction in the
******* forever ringing his ears with regret. each kiss
down his neck, each bite to his lip, each face-blanketing
exhale, he repents with the ignorance of finding the
will to live and love between the legs of someone who
feels the same way. the crimson crevices carved in his back
drip with remorse and sullen; hoping for once to life the
bedsheets and find an unawakened bundle of coiffure
and serenity and not calamities of regret and ****** suicide
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
She's having a bad day
The way only women do.
I pile all our pillows in the
Wall corner of our bed.
Carry her into it,
Cover her with both
Our duvets.
Comfort womb.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
Purple pools with floating jewels,
A merciful Goddess on a throne,
Bountiful treasure in the water,
Do you dare to tread inside it?
Remedy me,
I'm ready,
The tide is steady,
Remedy me.
Electric blue birds flew,
To the east towards the hues,
A redemption just to rule,
You'll rue the day you let Her die too.
Remedy me,
I'm ready,
The tide is steady,
Remedy me.
Pink sheets on ****** beds,
Walls are painted with reds,
Satin duvets are all shed,
She loves to dance with the dead.
Remedy me,
Remedy me,
Remedy me,
I'm ready.
Sep 2, 2021
Sep 2, 2021 at 3:27 AM UTC
I held drunken delicacy in each step
as daylight bled
fairies on strings still dim on the walls
over people asleep barely dreaming
hungover from fleeting bliss
left us resting in heaven
bundled in blankets, nested in floral
duvets covered with stains of wine
---- fell asleep under the christmas tree
his boots half in the kitchen
I stood in shadows of his frail frame
he didn’t stir; still gone from drinking
and ***** things his mind was thinking
I had slept next to ---- on the sofa
he won’t miss me when he wakes
only an old bed sheet will greet him
adoration for him stained in my place
dripping from the curtain’s lace
with a tab in my hand I tread lightly
till radio hum broke the silence bore
good afternoon newcastle, it’s half past four
before hitting his head in a twinge
---- moans shut the **** up in a scottish lilt
I step out to the apricity; tender snow
rests around a milk bottle
likely to be forgotten and as I shut the door
I catch a glimpse of
---- whisper goodbye to me then blow me a kiss
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
One day our spines’ll tesselate under sage soft duvets as storms sweep across us and no one will cry;
not one noise shall slip from tongues
‘cos strength comes from keeping quiet
or carrying on.
You’re a now realised kindness that doesn’t know what breath is
or how the north circular works in festive rush hours home,
but I’ll kiss the answers upon your tender carbon tapered chest and hope the toner never runs low
(your dad would’ve handcrafted every thing he knew in semaphore if he’d have pulled through,
but you’ll learn in time, too, that time does not ruin fewer experiences than being).
I lean in. Whisper this (above) across your one body,
three eighths the size of a coffee table hardback book:
the result of patience pined for
that I mimed along to motherhood the best I could for nine months
and now, here, I lift the hood and work out what to do next in this rush to settle down and sit,
sip until you snooze off into silence.
Here I carry you and do not notice the weight,
stare at the gape of you, my newly framed little one held in the palm of my hand,
squat full four pinter named after someone we knew.
You landed lunar surface side up,
smoothed new to the toes
and I wonder how I’ll meet you
I wonder how this goes.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
This morning I was all black daffodils and headless mannequins,
the hours turned into twisted clouds that always look like rain,
this morning I was ripped white duvets, spindle bookcases,
thick laminate book covers stolen from library stacks.
Tonight I am a yawning cat stretch, a heart one beat off,
a tiny jar of salt from leftover tears.
I shoved my face into a towel today, let out one sob and
went about my day.
(I can’t even find the effort to cry.)
Tonight I am a half-deflated balloon, forgotten in the corner of a room,
I am the sun hiding on the other side of the world,
I am a smile just waiting to burst,
I am sore muscle ripped sweatshirt blanket cocoon.
This morning I was an unopened window and tonight I am
blinds hiding the night.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:18 AM UTC
Take me away from here to a place where
No - one knows us.
I'll pay for your coffee when you forget your money.
The only flat that we could afford
Would be above a cafe with chipped
White painted windowsills and cold stone floors.
We'd hide under duvets eating toast and you'd
Nestle against me; whispering in the darkness.
Your feet would be icy and we'd
Fall asleep to the sound of
The rain.
There's no - one else I'd rather be with,
No other company I desire
Besides yours.
The others are false and faded,
You are timeless to me.
I'd read to you in the evenings and
Steadily you'd unravel,
Stop hiding.
You'd kiss my forehead and
Mend the cracks
In my mind.
We'd grow old together, you and I.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
I write a lot about being in the passenger seat,
In cars that are beat up,
Or sometimes they're luxe.
About soft linens and and duvets like winter's best angels,
About smoking Marlboro reds on front porch steps.
About cold and blank mornings.
I write a lot about coffee shops.
Looking out the window and watching passerby's,
Feeling the sonder seep into my bones,
About the ones who smile at me,
Those I don't know,
And those I eventually get to meet.
I write about falling in love,
Getting my heart broken,
*** with strange men,
Which was only one time.
When I felt loss in my chest and got carried away.
And so I want you to feel me the way I feel all of these things that I can't help but be so obsessed with and I don't know why.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Yellow is ***** or is it? I know a lot of yellow people that think like dishwashers
spinning turning loose their causes for finding likeness compatible. I know people that like to machinify the living and talk about furniture as if it heard the rumors in the fabric already supposedly threading. I know people that lust after red draping rooms thinking it more desperate than the sun I’ve seen them click at it looking directly into the lighting of things making drama more dramatic than modern living. I’ve heard people make relationships out of these resemblances as if every eye had an ear to be heard without looking making silence appear chilling but every bit thrilling. Was it just yesterday a girl confessed she named her plants with each passing lover? There are people that attach themselves to objects so violently they fall in love with a chair a chair worth a thousand words more than it gives in its cedar vintage dress but that’s just one chair. I know people that vacation to inns retreat to estate sales to hoard stories in bracelets and oil lamps tracking floorboards with time uttering words no longer used like duvets and chesterfields and smirking into their dusty reflection from an embroidered hand mirror. I know people that would buy used postcards. Yellow. All I’m saying is I know people that avoid white at all cost.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
old coffee coarses through me
can’t feel a heartbeat
going too quick to pick up a pulse
a sign of life
a drug yet a luxury
-integrity-
_prosperity of humanity_
and you have none while you continue to slander
my name
my _name_
being mentioned in rooms i’ve never stepped in
without my control,
a once blank canvas would soon be used as a form of blame and through it peace in you-
preconceived notions are drawn in the minds of associates and strangers
better than an aged painter in the studio he’s only ever known
yet this painter is blindfolded
while this oblivious painter intently tunes in
to sympathize with the selective truths you dispose
‘how could she??’ they say
beautiful
in an unconventional way
for you to teach them what they don’t want to be
whilst they choose what to hear
words sifted once again like the selection of the finest grain
rejects strawn amongst the boulder
you were once beautiful
a sweet dandelion left to a stem with a rigid bulb at the top
not hideous just no longer wished upon
unfortunately
there’s no lights in this room
just brushes sprawled all out on the rug
with a ray of sunkissed light coming through the duvets-
it’s a bother but you
bring it up when others do
used to be the highlight of the room
but now just something that reluctantly grew on you
you want the dark but i only wish light amongst you past lover
you continue to lead-
incite fine strokes in them for my self portrait
for better or worse
i refuse to recognize for myself
using colors i’d never think you’d use- their masterpiece being guided by your bitter words
i blamed myself for an instant-
something you’d never do
leading me to believe that your heart
never was truly pure when i was with you
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
maybe if I stay in this bed I'll be able to wilt like the flowers on my nightstand
my petals will fall off the edge of the blanket, smooth and graceful on the bedroom floor
maybe I'll waste away into the covers,
diving into duvets and curling my toes into the edge of the covers
i just really wanna die
and I want it to be in this bed so it can be pushed down the river like a casket
holding my temperance and my sin in the palm of my hands
as the water drags me and the pillows deep under
deep
deep
under
it's quiet, there
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Your love is a diamond-ruby
song at my throat
fire wired to my heart.
All the players on the stage
throw their damp duvets
But I will give it sanctuary
my whole being
Infinitesimal space to spread and grow.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC