"gough" poems
Head held high, flexing the shell
bright lifestyle, I know it too well.
It’s a tall tale to tell but its best that you know
that things get better at the end of the road
Not too long ago, I felt the same way
I dealt with demons that crept in the grey
And maybe it’s hard enough to ask for help
but it’s harder to watch yourself
give up once you’ve left the shelf
Nah, I couldn’t stomach the pain
like a trumpet, I blew the in out of sane.
I popped open a vein to paint my blues, violet
and threw a pair of cans on to block out the silence.
I’m not defiant; I defy any tyrant
that tries to buy my compliance.
I ride with the giants, stride like Midas
minus the greed, all I need is kindness.
Spread your wings; shed the ego
live amid the kings like a needle.
Be your own hero, succeed the sequel
take charge, zero in on the easel.
Reach for the stars, you are an artist
Van Gough goals; erase all the hardships.
I may try my hardest
but I’m not the smartest
but good work ethic leads to a harvest.
Reap my carcass, long after I’m gone,
brains over brawn, shame on you all
for thinking that these walls can hold me in.
You get the memo? I’m better than I’ve ever been.
Binge drinking is a sickness in itself
***try to **** the pain but the pain kills the help***
as well as low thinking it will **** your brain cells
***if you try to **** the pain, you will **** yourself***
© Matthew Harlovic
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Crafted like a diamond
with the hands of the greats
Van Gough, Da Vinci
put together like Cubism
with the vision of Picasso
A mind like Shakespeare, Dickens
Intelligent like Artificial Intelligence
Envisioned by God
A perfect being
and made into the best, the most perfect person
Made by perfection into perfection
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
it's all good,
Van Gough reprints on the walls,
tact in,
type writer on the carpet floor,
a boxelder bug hides in between 'U' & 'I'
I've got a dollar in my wallet,
hair on my face,
and the dog waits at the door for me to be wild,
the room is cold,
the heater is off,
the electrician is drunk,
i hand him a bottle of wine,
we end up painting the walls,
with the left over blue buckets of paint in the basement,
"now it's like we're in heaven"
the bellyed drunk brown eyed electrician,
his hands face hair clothes covered in paint,
"now you are heaven"
and we laugh,
lighting cigarettes that taste like women,
and the Television screen is cracked and leaks out Volume 3 News
some how we are free at this moment in time,
when the color of the walls are pointless,
when the television screen says nothing,
when the bathtub is broken,
and the water pipes whine,
and the mind is fairly crazy,
fairly drunk,
fairly mad,
but it's all good,
because rent is paid,
and the world's fist is taunting me,
to see how long i can go without eating,
and how fast i can create.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
The love bug
A venomous bat
here to **** away all of what I know
a ****** of all hopes
here to **** away all of what I desire
I remember her teeth
clenched onto my neck and ripping off my skin
here to **** away all of who I am
is there anything more insane than love?
now this infection is spreading throughout my entire body!
everything that I saw as real has been ****** away from me.
now my mind is transforming,
all I can think of is,
"what am I willing to do to earn your affection?"
I am willing to top Van Gough
I'll cut out my heart for you
put it on some strings and proudly place it on your petite neck
and when I get near,
I will finally show you what my insides feel like
and when I get near,
you will feel the seizure of beats pound against your chest
and when I get near,
my heart will hit, hack and **** against you
and when I get near,
you will finally feel what I feel.
this is how I will stop the madness,
because when I get near
I will finally feel what you do,
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
A repeated beat that will fade into beautiful emptiness
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
I will wear a plastic smile
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
I will have a plastic heart
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Those beats will get to comforting for me
I will kiss you
desperately
to feel those soothing rhythmic beats
the beatings we will share
Together
in unison.
For the first time
my words will hush
and my actions will have a rhythm
a steadily increasing pound
like a drum-line.
there is no way to feel this
Fantastic!
that ****** of two lips colliding
all I have to do is close my eyes
and believe the pictures in my head are true.
you are my dream girl
but my dreams are a virus.
reality ****** away from me
and because of this
I gave you all of me
all of what I am
all of what I desire
all of what I know
I hope you continue to wear that necklace
and feel my heartbeat thud against your chest
Thud, Thud, Thud
against your chest, whenever I think of you.
So you will finally know how great that music feels on your body.
that light percussion of my little drummer
will always beat for you
Thud, Thud, Thud
and I will
finally feel
what you do,
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
"Where is my Monet?", I say
As I look through the blurred vision of an impressionist day.
A double paned view of reality
Swaying beauty through eyes once knew.
Where is my Monet or be it Van Gough?
All beauty's vision framed newly printed Picasso.
Shadow me done, and once never knew
What others should have seen as they counted me too.
So now, I say no
Not of Van Gough nor Monet,
I see beauty no Rembrandt nor Picasso to sway.
I see a simple little girl with all she will need
To see the world lovely and in the midst of all, succeed.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like hells bells miss ringers,
Like bringers miss takers,
Like ******* miss fakers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the good fellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
I miss everything.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
It was 10pm when I decided to leave my apartment
there was snow on the ground
patchy from the dry cold half winter half sun heat
I decided to check the mail
I had been drinking three dollar wine for hours staring at old paintings on the wall
paintings of kansas
paintings of tornadoes
paintings of Van Gough
I had written a poem on the wall
dedicated to the cockroaches and lamp posts of new york city
I wrote it in lipstick and spanish
I opened the mailbox
I felt the moon on my shoulder
I saw a shadow that wasn't mine behind a fence
it was from Florida
a woman I had once fallen in love with
with her brown hair curly like that of smoke of a cigarette
it read “i miss you”
I had decided to die right there
with the half melted snow
the half grown grass that was green and brown
the cigarette butts
the broken glass
with the moon still on my shoulder
a thousand miles behind winters blanket of clouds
I decided to die there
lighting a cigarette
wet from my lips
I lied down
with the orange letter in my hand
with the orange cigarette lightbug in my mouth
smoke dancing out like Amazonian women in heat
I pictured swamps
I pictured the city on fire
I pictured her naked in my hands
giving her self up to me
letting me have her lips and her legs and her stomach and her love
in the distant
behind the city buildings ears and belly button lint and sirens and swing music and the flickering of beer bottle caps and the burning of tobacco
from lips to tongue to throat to lung
then back out
in a ball of stretched smoke
headed only to the clouds up above
which angels and the moon slept behind
It would have been good to die there
the ground felt good
I thought of Texas
rivers
cow skulls on top of lamps
I thought of Mother and her
rose bottled liquor
I hought of Father
and his eyes that were enormous with
poverty and Tommy Hilfiger sweaters
I thought of
Her
alone in florida
full of sun
full of days and full of nights
I thought of Death
and how he must envy me
I smoke cigarettes to make it easy on him
he knows I wont go
without a fight
without spit in his hollow eye
without my blood
on his fur coat
when he comes in winter on a horse
or a Cadillac from the 1930's
I thought of many brave men
drinking their hearts
their bellies
their eyesockets to sleep
with Tall bottles of gloriously cheap whiskey
I thought of war
and I thought of lighting another cigarette
but it was cold
and I decided to go inside
with my windows
with my Van Gogh paintings
with my blind cat who purred at the dishwasher
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
Last Night I dreamt
As most often do
It was so very vivid
I could've sworn it was true
I sat up and gazed around
At the morning in my home
A little voice whispered in my head
I was not alone
So I laid back down
I took a deep breath and then
Closed my eyes to think back
To the Dream and where I'd been
I sat alone with Van Gough
So I could watch him paint
His life splashed upon the canvas
So he could forget his pain
The world seemed to disappear
As he he sat with a brush in his hand
He wasn't called mad by a world
That refused to understand
I stood beside Hemingway
With a strong drink in my hand
He told me stories of his life
Of war, women and Cuban Land
A large smile sat on his face
As he spoke and forgot about his strife
I drank his scotch and thought
Could I be as great in my life
I laid beside Elizabeth Short
And I watched her as she lay
I heard her speak of fame and stardom
And that she would know it one day
With stars in her eyes, she told me
Her name would be known far and wide
And it pained me to know
That she'd be known for only the way she died
Then I sat back and gazed upon all three
With which I had shared my time
I took their words to heart
And stashed them within my mind
I could be like Van Gough
And focus my pain and fear onto the page
My blood is ink and I can wield it
Like some unholy Mage
I could be great like Hemingway
Forever destined to destroy myself
I could hit the top of the pile
And drown out the future with top shelf
I can be like The Dahlia
Forever dreaming of the day I'll be known
Chasing fame until the end
When my final fate is finally bestowed
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
when I was in kindergarten I was shown Van Gough
it said that
he cut his ear off but when I reached for the shears
my mother screamed
my teacher introduced me to Galileo
I spent the whole day watching NASA videos
I went home & dropped my mother's vase on the carpet
it shattered into a million pieces
my mother screamed
they showed me Jackson Pollack
I ruined my carpet with acrylic paints
my mom shook her head
maybe I was too far gone
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:04 AM UTC
i am on a bus and i am sitting next to a girl i haven't sat next to in a very long time.
we used to listen to taylor swift and now we are listening to poetry that makes us cry.
i am so much happier than i have been because i am looking at art and i feel like maybe,
if i try hard enough,
i can become art.
the colors remind me of my old bedroom and they remind me of my old best friend.
she was in the hospital last month, because she overdosed.
i promised her once that we could talk about our end, but we never did.
i wonder if she ever thinks about me.
it is one am and it is raining and i am wishing that he would paint my portrait to keep in his pocket,
to immortalize in a frame that is prettier than i ever hope to be,
on a wall next to painstakingly created flowers that hold more emotion than i will ever feel.
the moon has a special hold on poets, but all it is doing tonight is making me wonder why my hands don't pull angels from stone and beauty from destruction.
i am wondering if i am still alive, if any of these people are still alive, and if the dead feel good about themselves.
i am wondering why i feel so different than i did last year.
maybe it's the dress and the notebook and the quiet steps i take because i don't want to disturb the art,
or staring long enough at a stranger that i can pretend to know his story, and that he wears his father's watch.
i am on the bus and she thinks i am less sad because she is less sad.
but when i look at all the art the first thing i feel is jealous, which is really the same thing as being sad.
i want to spend forever in the glass rooms but i don't deserve to, because i am so selfish.
i think that if i look at monet and picasso and van gough for long enough i will absorb them,
but i also want to walk past them, to the pieces whose plaques contain only a lifespan,
with no detailed description of the reasoning behind the use of numbers hidden in the abstract.
(picasso put them in so he could stay in touch with reality.)
i think that maybe that's why i am doing so much better in math this year.
i just want to stay in touch with reality.
because i have been staring at "evening mood" for half an hour and all i feel is sad,
because after the sunset there is nothing but darkness and that's what the night brings and it's what thoughts of you bring too.
it is called sandstorm but it makes me think only of the sea.
i think i need to get away from here for a while. maybe i will go to the sea.
i haven't been on a bus in a long time, but here i am.
i spent the day as something i have always wanted to be.
we haven't talked in a month but she still thinks i am beautiful.
why am i crying?
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
the Australian Labor Party
is in mourning to-day
the great left wing union
in the sky
called Gough away
he was a leviathan
of Australian politics
in the seventies
many social issues
he championed
on the parliament's floor
with Rex Connors and Dr Jim Cairns
his biggest bone of contention
was Sir John Kerr
he sunk Gough's money supply
with Malcolm Frazer
looking on from the side
to-day there is a dark pall
cast over the Labor Party
as it says farewell
to Gough
men and women
of
Australia
will
never
see
his
likes
again
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
*the museums
the art galleries
all had he visited
van gough
rembrandt
dali
picasso
knew he all
and their works
paintings
drawings
sculptures
and etchings
surrealist and cubist
and he dazzled his audiences
with his vast store of fact and opinion
till the sorry drunk
troubled his thoughts
with accounts of john next door
the man who visited
when our man was on his rounds
giving erudite talks
and bargaining with dealers in antiques*
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Thinking that someone loves you is better than nothing,
but what people don't realize is that it was all pokes at jokes
and I bet he smokes,
or knows I do
and doesn't like the smell,
or the way I breathe out,
or how the rings come from my mouth
and are never on my fingers.
And I have paper cuts on those same fingers
that want to be in your hair,
and your body,
(all of it),
and I hope you want them there,
because that's exactly where they'll be
if we ever meet.
The dirt buried in my prints
will leave marks on you like a million hands and feet,
drenched in paint and smeared over your temple.
I bet you don't care what I look like,
or that I have a Van Gough pin,
or that people like to write my name.
I'm glad you like to listen,
and that you're smooth with words,
so I can fall asleep to the sound of your golden text.
I never thought I would like an arial view,
or that I would fall in love with strings of it
all laced together into a perfect fabric,
(or web).
I hope that you're not allergic to sound,
or jelly beans,
because I want to see you cry and smile at the same time.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
Do you want to sketch all your life
Or learn to paint a master piece?
Do we not sketch to learn, to develop, to grow?
So why do you still sketch?
What more do you hope to learn?
That people are vulnerable?
That you can hurt them?
That you can leave them?
Are you not tired of sketching outlines?
Don't you long for tonal quality?
For careful composition and a considered pallet?
I know your secret!
That the canvas scares you, terrifies you even.
All that you will be revealed on that unforgiving scape.
That expanse of white which must be filled and not by charcoal and line.
You will be revealed, exposed and displayed for all to see.
You will be revealed in the shading,
In the sensitivity you give to light and to contrast.
Yes, you will be revealed...
But in it you will be filled in.
You will have no freedom to remain as an outline of a man,
With all hidden in fine graphite lines and hastily hatched shadow.
You will have to mature as a man, as an artist of the soul
And set yourself free on a canvas with confidence and brush!
What a liberation!
Will the first canvas be a masterpiece?
In all likelihood no!
But it will be a beginning
And how can you consider yourself an artist if you never paint!
How many sunflowers did Van Gough paint? How many chapels?
Was he satisfied with any of them?
And was each of them worthwhile?
Paint my friend, take up your brush and paint.
Use colour boldly,
Reserve fear and reservation for other pursuits
Or better still leave them from your pallet altogether.
Be sensitive and subtle with your treatment of the subject,
frame her well, carefully
But be bold.
There is little point in holding back.
Do you want your canvas to scream, "Hesitation!"?
Paint or don't, but if you choose not to, declare it to the world!
Do not act like a painter, talk like a painter and look like a painter,
If you do not paint!
Declare "I like to sketch"
And sketch until you bear no longer to leave a subject unexplored in a monochromatic if artistic hiatus.
Be true, be bold, be clear and when you feel the time is right paint with the same honesty and boldness with which you sketched.
Then it will be a true training,
Not the pontification a of a trainee conjurer working above his station.
Complete your apprenticeship, graduate,
And step forth into the world.
Confident, upright, paint brush in hand.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
Van Gough ate yellow paint
To make is empty insides happy
If I swallow these pretty pills
Will I finally be free?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
this is what it looks like to me.
a queer white picket fence
this is what I believe it to be.
the sun shown through the trees
and rays landed, thusly
on the particles that dusted
the front porch.
begging us to take a picture,
that would eventually
be given the title of "dad vibes."
and the cats are staring at us
through the domestic screens
on the windows, and I swear
that I heard one them gossiping...about
us.
you make vibrate.
it's like aorta telepathy.
something must be wrong
with me.
I swear,
I've never seen a more unlikely pair.
we have the same nickname,
I think that is SO ******* cute.
and yes, let us pillow talk about
road tripping, to see
van gough's bedroom.
and HERE,
I lie with you...
looking up at the ceiling.
surround by four walls of warmth.
canary yellow is something I've been obsessed with lately.
it's something I see in my dreams.
a colour that blesses my soul with the ability to imagine
something
as serious as serious as
a ***** balloon popping contest.
and
as hilarious as
the way, I look
when I'm pacing my way through
my to-do lists.
i know, that it is
spring break,
but a diet of coffee and
"ciggies"
may have contributed
to our lack of sleep
or
maybe
it's the four days we spend in bed.
then
when you asked me
to sit on your face,
i knew this to be true.
I'd never want to bid you adieu
if, at some point in my lifetime,
my soul could copulate with yours.
if I could beg you
to make more noise.
I'm sorry I'm so quite between
these sheets.
I notice these things
and FIND them to be true.
I left my boxer briefs in your dresser.
my ripe gift
is to be left
for a worthy soul like you.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
The irony in this situation is overwhelming.
Night after night, I lay awake,
Remembering a time when I wasn’t contained in this wretched Asylum.
When I could look to the sky and see the stars,
When only I had control over my thought and actions.
My memories of the outside keep me sane,
This is where the irony comes into play…
I remember the dark skies,
Illuminated by the vivid stars,
Making meanings lucid
and showing past wrongs.
I’ll inevitably be here for quite awhile.
So all I have is the sudden flashbacks,
More than welcome in my lonely mind.
To motivate my escape,
I think of the peaceful world,
In the dead of night,
The soft glow shinning over the town’s sleeping inhabitants.
All of this will remind me why I need to get back on the outside,
All of this will keep me sane.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
I don’t love you like a woman typically loves a man,
With mushy words and hearts and fireworks.
I love you like the ocean crashes onto the shore.
Or how Spring melts the snow with its warmth.
I love you in a way, that a child loves their childhood toy,
Unconditionally without cause, simply because I can.
My love for you isn’t black and white,
I love you more with shades of gray.
I love you with heartfelt immaturity, like a teenager
In love for the first time, finding any reason to fall head
Over heels again, and again,
Because you make me feel like I’m walking on clouds,
Feeling giddy about falling for you, everyday, over again
For the rest of my life.
I love you like paper soaks up ink from the pen,
Uncontrollable and hungry for more words to be,
Written of infatuation and adoration.
I love you, like the dots go above the i’s,
And the lines go through the t’s,
Or how a period at the end of strewn together words,
Somehow makes it a sentence.
I love you the way, the Sistine Chapel was painted,
With slow broad strokes, and the patience of a steady hand.
I paint you with words, the way Michaelangelo, Van Gough, and Picasso painted the world;
With beauty, undying love, devotion and truth.
And because I know of no other way to love you, than this,
You will always be a beautiful masterpiece,
That I was more than lucky enough to find,
Along the way through my journey of life.
And I promise to never repaint you,
Or tarnish your frame,
But to love you the way you were made,
Priceless Perfection...
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 4:42 AM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
The Crack in My Voice
the one held by structure and poise
the one held by sincerity yet worry
the one held by the thoughts of you
and I together
The Late Night Deep Breathe
the one that got me through my wednesday night anxiety attacks
the one that whipped away my tears 5 times in counting
the one that carried my suitcase across cities and trains
the one that made me finally see you
and I together
The Van Gough Poster
the one which makes me think of better things
the one which sees the starry nights to come
the one which takes me back to the core of myself
the one which creates what is you
and I together
The Argument We Had On Church Street
the one that led me to ignorance
the one that made me cry for 2 minutes straight
but i haven't cried, even 5 months later
thats how i know that everything is real with you
and I together
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
You fail to see the beauty inside you, you can't see the person I'm staring at.
I am screaming at you and you can't even hear me. I am begging for you to just look in the mirror and see what I see.
I see a man, with curly brown almost black hair. A dimple on each cheek, and misplaced freckles that make your face like a painting from van gough.
I see the poems thought up inside your head, just not being able to write them down because you don't want the criticism.
I see a ten year old boy, living with his best friend at the time cause his mom was an addict and his dad was a drunk.
I see a boy with sad eyes crying because he doesn't feel loved from the world surrounding him.
I see a boy yelling and cursing at his parents for bringing him into this unfaithful world, crying out for attention that he thinks he doesn't deserve.
But now,
I see a man who is stronger than his demons.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
How would that be
for you and me.
How would that go off
between you and me.
He is out of his mind
he talks of, I was thinking of Van Gough, and his paintings
and maybe out of my mind
but is for me to known
and you to find.
Take me for what I am, just s surreal dreamer
but find what you said
or thought
Be what you are a latteral thinker.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
My drive took me to Malvies
Along a rough French road
A perfect sight delighted me
Natural sun dials stood in rows
Fields of velvet brown eyes
Looking at the sun
Gently swaying in the breeze
Halos circled every one
Like soldiers to attention
In unison with each other
The sunflower community
Are like sister and like brother
Yellow sunshine petals
Gold coins in the rough
Famously inspired
In pictures by Van Gough
My hair flowed in the wind
Breathing in the freedom
Happy faces welcome me
inviting me to see them
Sun dials follow shadow
Sunflowers pursue the sun
Gazing up to the sky
Absorbing life they've won
Inspiration:
Malvies is a very small village community near Limoux in the South of France. I spent many Summers there and when in season, the drive takes you through amazing fields of Sunflowers which are a spectacular sight.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
I have turned you into my very own masterpiece
Is this what you wanted?
Traces of my red wine lipstick litter the defined lines and curves of your body
My nails leaving raised lines down your back
Dark bruises inked into your sun kissed skin
Your breath labored, pupils of your emerald eyes blown wide with lust
Your neat honey locks completely disheveled
Your clothes in a heap on the floor
My hands and mouth have explored every inch of you, and carefully sculpted your body into my most prized work
I have created something worth more than any Picasso or Van Gough
And all it took was a crooked smile and a little whiskey
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC