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"jutting" poems
I see you, monster... In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes They hold the blackest of stares Nebulous swirling pits of demise Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses Every so often would curl into a snarl Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair Unkempt and gritty from your last meal Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years Wearing a face only a mother could love Expressionless but it screams out your fears Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks I hear you, monster... As you stalk your sleepless nights Nocturnal ambience be your playground Lurking in the dark; places with no light Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent Can barely notice when you're up and about As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions With which you paint a portrait so ghastly I feel you monster... Deep within the recesses of my heart Destroying and distorting all that was pure Testing my will till I should fall apart You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence I see you, monster... You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror I await the day that you would finally dissolve For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
0
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
ryn
Monster
I see you, monster... In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes They hold the blackest of stares Nebulous swirling pits of demise Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses Every so often would curl into a snarl Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair Unkempt and gritty from your last meal Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years Wearing a face only a mother could love Expressionless but it screams out your fears Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks I hear you, monster... As you stalk your sleepless nights Nocturnal ambience be your playground Lurking in the dark; places with no light Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent Can barely notice when you're up and about As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions With which you paint a portrait so ghastly I feel you monster... Deep within the recesses of my heart Destroying and distorting all that was pure Testing my will till I should fall apart You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence I see you, monster... You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror I await the day that you would finally dissolve For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
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40
The obsession you have with the size of your hips. They should be smaller, Don't you think? Oh, and be sure to do whatever it takes to have that thigh gap. It's so worth it. That thigh gap. The more space the better. The emptiness of your body. The jutting collar bones. Feeling dizzy. Feeling depressed. Worth every inch lost off your waist. It is worth your once full and lushious hair now falling out like dead leaves. Because you're dying. You are killing yourself. But it's all fine. You're obsessed with telling yourself that it's all under control. Isn't it? Theres no sleep at night. Not when your anxiety is this intense. Not when your up planning how to skip the rest of the weeks meals. Use that time to be productive. Like right now. Lying awake... obsessing. Obsessing. Obsessing. But it's s all fine, right? Because that thigh gap. And bony fingers. You're deliriously falling over every **** time you stand, and you think it's all still fine now? You think it's still worth it? Isn't it?
0
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
bri-1
Obsession
The obsession you have with the size of your hips. They should be smaller, Don't you think? Oh, and be sure to do whatever it takes to have that thigh gap. It's so worth it. That thigh gap. The more space the better. The emptiness of your body. The jutting collar bones. Feeling dizzy. Feeling depressed. Worth every inch lost off your waist. It is worth your once full and lushious hair now falling out like dead leaves. Because you're dying. You are killing yourself. But it's all fine. You're obsessed with telling yourself that it's all under control. Isn't it? Theres no sleep at night. Not when your anxiety is this intense. Not when your up planning how to skip the rest of the weeks meals. Use that time to be productive. Like right now. Lying awake... obsessing. Obsessing. Obsessing. But it's s all fine, right? Because that thigh gap. And bony fingers. You're deliriously falling over every **** time you stand, and you think it's all still fine now? You think it's still worth it? Isn't it?
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32
I could have gone to the cemetery, or back to my high school lab, find him lecturing from a podium, bony finger raised, demagogue of the dead. I could break him down piece by piece, cram him in a duffle, a femur jutting the zipper. Ignore the groan- Skeletons are by nature never satisfied. Instead I found myself in the carnival lot, The dog was long dead, the sign kept guard. Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds. Cotton candy in memory- blue tack crunching my teeth. Lewd. Skeletons fixed on poles, spiked up through pelvis and spine. Use **** Grip shoulders. twist. lift. When one slid free, he collapsed into my arms all bone-light, lovely, mine at last. I just brought him home. Sat at the kitchen table. Named him Curly. Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird! What’s his name? What’s his name? His name is Curly, I said, but I knew his name was You. We drink wine by the pool. He never sips. Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint. Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman wants to play his ribs like a xylophone. Sometimes he sighs, he hates Oingo Boingo. I laugh. Obliging. So do I. When the wind kicks up he smells of sugar and rust. Sometimes he rattles the glassware. Sometimes he won’t sit still. Skeletons are by nature never satisfied.
0
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
William-A-Gibson
Curly
I could have gone to the cemetery, or back to my high school lab, find him lecturing from a podium, bony finger raised, demagogue of the dead. I could break him down piece by piece, cram him in a duffle, a femur jutting the zipper. Ignore the groan- Skeletons are by nature never satisfied. Instead I found myself in the carnival lot, The dog was long dead, the sign kept guard. Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds. Cotton candy in memory- blue tack crunching my teeth. Lewd. Skeletons fixed on poles, spiked up through pelvis and spine. Use **** Grip shoulders. twist. lift. When one slid free, he collapsed into my arms all bone-light, lovely, mine at last. I just brought him home. Sat at the kitchen table. Named him Curly. Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird! What’s his name? What’s his name? His name is Curly, I said, but I knew his name was You. We drink wine by the pool. He never sips. Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint. Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman wants to play his ribs like a xylophone. Sometimes he sighs, he hates Oingo Boingo. I laugh. Obliging. So do I. When the wind kicks up he smells of sugar and rust. Sometimes he rattles the glassware. Sometimes he won’t sit still. Skeletons are by nature never satisfied.
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52
There is this place It’s called Palestine It used to be pretty And peaceful and lively The people lived as they do Everywhere else. Then there came to be this place It’s called Israel Which is basically Palestine But mercilessly occupied It attacked Palestine And took over most of its land. So now in Palestine Or what’s left of it Where there used to be quaint houses There’s just a lot of rubble With broken and burnt doors, utensils and limbs Jutting out from underneath. Where there used to be bright smiles That could light up the world There now are tears, burn marks and bloodied cuts That can rend any human heart Except those that are not human. It is a war, not between states Not between races, nor between fates Nay, this is a bigger war, one of faith At least, that is how it started But now, it is between human and non-human. Tell me, please Is it human to **** innocent people For the sake of self, and the sake of hate? Is it human then also, to remain quiet And watch such tyranny be? It must also be human, to point guns at 4 year olds. And by this definition, Humans of this world, humans that feel Are not humans at all, because they care And those that don’t, well They’re humans at their prime The most evolved of them all. Israel, I salute you, a salute full of mock At your utter humanity, and benevolence Your bombs when they land With the cheers of your people, And your guns when they point At 4-year old terrorists; surely they can **** Palestine, I stand with you, sincerely Your children, your people, your land and your peace Are my children, my people, my land and my peace Their bombs when they land, make my prayers fiercer Their guns when they shoot, make my eyes water But know this, Palestinians, we are one. So when they shoot you, I bleed And when they bomb you, I ache When they hurt you, I feel the pain And when you cry for help, I pray We are blood, we are one body We are the Ummah, we will rise. Until then we pray, we pray and we try Dear Palestine, stay strong, stay firm… Help shall come, in ways unimaginable *Do not weaken, and do not grieve You will overcome them, if you are true believers* Allah has promised, and His promise he upholds. ~Moniba.
0
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
theunfeelinghuman
Palestine, Oh Palestine
There is this place It’s called Palestine It used to be pretty And peaceful and lively The people lived as they do Everywhere else. Then there came to be this place It’s called Israel Which is basically Palestine But mercilessly occupied It attacked Palestine And took over most of its land. So now in Palestine Or what’s left of it Where there used to be quaint houses There’s just a lot of rubble With broken and burnt doors, utensils and limbs Jutting out from underneath. Where there used to be bright smiles That could light up the world There now are tears, burn marks and bloodied cuts That can rend any human heart Except those that are not human. It is a war, not between states Not between races, nor between fates Nay, this is a bigger war, one of faith At least, that is how it started But now, it is between human and non-human. Tell me, please Is it human to **** innocent people For the sake of self, and the sake of hate? Is it human then also, to remain quiet And watch such tyranny be? It must also be human, to point guns at 4 year olds. And by this definition, Humans of this world, humans that feel Are not humans at all, because they care And those that don’t, well They’re humans at their prime The most evolved of them all. Israel, I salute you, a salute full of mock At your utter humanity, and benevolence Your bombs when they land With the cheers of your people, And your guns when they point At 4-year old terrorists; surely they can **** Palestine, I stand with you, sincerely Your children, your people, your land and your peace Are my children, my people, my land and my peace Their bombs when they land, make my prayers fiercer Their guns when they shoot, make my eyes water But know this, Palestinians, we are one. So when they shoot you, I bleed And when they bomb you, I ache When they hurt you, I feel the pain And when you cry for help, I pray We are blood, we are one body We are the Ummah, we will rise. Until then we pray, we pray and we try Dear Palestine, stay strong, stay firm… Help shall come, in ways unimaginable *Do not weaken, and do not grieve You will overcome them, if you are true believers* Allah has promised, and His promise he upholds. ~Moniba.
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67
in a taut black dress you brush by me   you are dark summer fruit simmering hot a sopping estuary   i gather you into me   you cascade like an undulating cat giggles like trembling gelatin cherry kiss lips   agile muscle shifting   pleating like soft furs against my thunderous chest your tremulous tongue rupturing like spiced chrysanthemums from heaven   i inhale your lavender breath   your saliva melts stormy mouth up-leaping i eat your soul and paradise ******** licking honey rainbows filling my mouth a thousand times   and a thousand more its never enough when some one has your heart suffocate me in your drooling mouth your body is my aviary and hot house of man eating plants i run to your teeth beautiful cleavers gleaming shivering with excitement   from your dragging bites my blood languishing at your feet have no regard for me eat my love   i live to be swallowed by you   i hold you through the night all dire raptures dark in mystic paradise   tangled in your hair may mourning never find us torrid scorched from flames infernal black candles uncrossing pasts devils **** your adoring toy   kisses never ceasing hot weather nostrils steaming your flexed body writhes a royal contortion   your heart cleaving so that i may like a sun   consume your darkest edges bitter chocolate so sweet   to fill griefs mouth with ecstasy my heart aches like a siren of echoes   calling to you   shaking your gates down   you are a titanic gravity   and i'm forever tumbling   like eternal burning ashes through cobalt night it is a steep decent into heavens arms as i crumble all smashing diamonds and hissing flames into open wounds weeping glitter your chin jutting throat stretched while pulling the roots of your hair exposing arteries pulsing stuffing myself on your marrow you plume like a volcanic moon showering me with spooling stars and butter **** kisses ill turn you into my glistening little ***** all swollen tears for more   rituals of adoration kisses like monsoon rains i look up at your supple form your haunches my temple   worshiping you smothered in heavens jaws you cascading pantie-less   in a taut black dress
0
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
zebrablack
IN A TAUT BLACK DRESS
in a taut black dress you brush by me   you are dark summer fruit simmering hot a sopping estuary   i gather you into me   you cascade like an undulating cat giggles like trembling gelatin cherry kiss lips   agile muscle shifting   pleating like soft furs against my thunderous chest your tremulous tongue rupturing like spiced chrysanthemums from heaven   i inhale your lavender breath   your saliva melts stormy mouth up-leaping i eat your soul and paradise ******** licking honey rainbows filling my mouth a thousand times   and a thousand more its never enough when some one has your heart suffocate me in your drooling mouth your body is my aviary and hot house of man eating plants i run to your teeth beautiful cleavers gleaming shivering with excitement   from your dragging bites my blood languishing at your feet have no regard for me eat my love   i live to be swallowed by you   i hold you through the night all dire raptures dark in mystic paradise   tangled in your hair may mourning never find us torrid scorched from flames infernal black candles uncrossing pasts devils **** your adoring toy   kisses never ceasing hot weather nostrils steaming your flexed body writhes a royal contortion   your heart cleaving so that i may like a sun   consume your darkest edges bitter chocolate so sweet   to fill griefs mouth with ecstasy my heart aches like a siren of echoes   calling to you   shaking your gates down   you are a titanic gravity   and i'm forever tumbling   like eternal burning ashes through cobalt night it is a steep decent into heavens arms as i crumble all smashing diamonds and hissing flames into open wounds weeping glitter your chin jutting throat stretched while pulling the roots of your hair exposing arteries pulsing stuffing myself on your marrow you plume like a volcanic moon showering me with spooling stars and butter **** kisses ill turn you into my glistening little ***** all swollen tears for more   rituals of adoration kisses like monsoon rains i look up at your supple form your haunches my temple   worshiping you smothered in heavens jaws you cascading pantie-less   in a taut black dress
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79
stranded in the beauty of her throat shunted her preference a short drop in a bulwark twisting knot a hanged ghastly pendent her feet arching desperately in search of a floor they will never find obedient! yet her face a hideous insubordination she dissolves like tropical butter a screaming silence a falling prayer shuddering with downward sloping limbs she blue hemorrhaging eyes wobbled bulging to break into paradise tumbling like a dizzied cyclops as numb lipped jutting howls turn cement always willing to help he scums for her in pulsing heaves of beatific gush
0
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
zebrablack
Stranded
stranded in the beauty of her throat shunted her preference a short drop in a bulwark twisting knot a hanged ghastly pendent her feet arching desperately in search of a floor they will never find obedient! yet her face a hideous insubordination she dissolves like tropical butter a screaming silence a falling prayer shuddering with downward sloping limbs she blue hemorrhaging eyes wobbled bulging to break into paradise tumbling like a dizzied cyclops as numb lipped jutting howls turn cement always willing to help he scums for her in pulsing heaves of beatific gush
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31
On the bank of a rushing brook I sat for hours watching its course. Peered into the clear gurgling mass That cascaded down from a mountainous source Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips It babbles downhill night and day Rolling and gliding through plains and dales It winds its way to the wider bay. Dipping my fingers in its icy chill How my hand got repelled as from a shock! In its ripples stirred by the kissing breeze, I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock- All floating in queer, fanciful shapes, Shuddering, trembling and standing still And the fishes leaving zigzag trails, Swishing and swimming in the winding rill. As I quietly watched her speedy flight With her ***** rising in mournful heaves, In my ears fell her whispering soft Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves I hardly knew the time speeding by Nor noticed the birds’ homeward flight Or the Sun moving to the west end side And the Sky reddening at his sight As the brook thus continued her headlong ride To be mingled finally with the ocean wide I walked, brooding over man’s relentless stride To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.
0
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
valsa-george
By the Side of a Brook
On the bank of a rushing brook I sat for hours watching its course. Peered into the clear gurgling mass That cascaded down from a mountainous source Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips It babbles downhill night and day Rolling and gliding through plains and dales It winds its way to the wider bay. Dipping my fingers in its icy chill How my hand got repelled as from a shock! In its ripples stirred by the kissing breeze, I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock- All floating in queer, fanciful shapes, Shuddering, trembling and standing still And the fishes leaving zigzag trails, Swishing and swimming in the winding rill. As I quietly watched her speedy flight With her ***** rising in mournful heaves, In my ears fell her whispering soft Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves I hardly knew the time speeding by Nor noticed the birds’ homeward flight Or the Sun moving to the west end side And the Sky reddening at his sight As the brook thus continued her headlong ride To be mingled finally with the ocean wide I walked, brooding over man’s relentless stride To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.
Continue reading...
28
INFJ - T I grow exhausted at the exuberance of crowds. Not able to ignore that nagging voice that whispers the evils of them Feelings of fear overpower the simple formula of conversation Jutting into remind me of my appearance compared to theirs - Too weak to fight against it. It’s not easy to speak my mind. Never daring to even introduce myself Following a very strict line Just taking each day step by step - Thinking someday I’ll be able to explain. Inside, I judge everything. New situations make the feelings shake Fear and turbulence expand within Jaw clenched and sweaty palms - Thin skin begins to bruise. Introverted and intuitive Nervous, yet calm From day to day Just a puppet - To a never-ending nightmare
0
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
khart-film
Personality Poem
INFJ - T I grow exhausted at the exuberance of crowds. Not able to ignore that nagging voice that whispers the evils of them Feelings of fear overpower the simple formula of conversation Jutting into remind me of my appearance compared to theirs - Too weak to fight against it. It’s not easy to speak my mind. Never daring to even introduce myself Following a very strict line Just taking each day step by step - Thinking someday I’ll be able to explain. Inside, I judge everything. New situations make the feelings shake Fear and turbulence expand within Jaw clenched and sweaty palms - Thin skin begins to bruise. Introverted and intuitive Nervous, yet calm From day to day Just a puppet - To a never-ending nightmare
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21
Blackbird shadow death witness the spiraling madness glide silent over once vital beehive shorn gray paper thin sip raw honey hardening in the merciless heat nourish the suffering concentration-camp thin jutting bone slack skin reflect the boundless light of a shield wrought from love honor these golden futile gestures they are not infinitesimal grains Blackbird with beaded sight testify *do not avert your eyes*
0
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 9:42 AM UTC
denel-kessler
Blackbird
Blackbird shadow death witness the spiraling madness glide silent over once vital beehive shorn gray paper thin sip raw honey hardening in the merciless heat nourish the suffering concentration-camp thin jutting bone slack skin reflect the boundless light of a shield wrought from love honor these golden futile gestures they are not infinitesimal grains Blackbird with beaded sight testify *do not avert your eyes*
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35
The new day still saw the man Whose livelihood was rubber. He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan, He was the plantation's tapper. The evening sun had long set Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness. Relying on what little light the moon would let. He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress. His sack slung over one shoulder, He found his way to his trusty ride. Nightly routine he would execute over and over Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide. All day long, he had been thinking of the night before. He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick. As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more... He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick! As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track. His eyes caught something that came within sight. Standing by the side against a background of black. There she was again...all garbed in white...
0
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
ryn
Following Night (IV)
The new day still saw the man Whose livelihood was rubber. He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan, He was the plantation's tapper. The evening sun had long set Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness. Relying on what little light the moon would let. He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress. His sack slung over one shoulder, He found his way to his trusty ride. Nightly routine he would execute over and over Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide. All day long, he had been thinking of the night before. He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick. As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more... He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick! As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track. His eyes caught something that came within sight. Standing by the side against a background of black. There she was again...all garbed in white...
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20
her happiness is everything her pathos; be kind with cruelty blood and tears, a royal jelly merciless kisses like blazing pyres she cries through a night prayer my push pin princess; a crimson petal nerves edge; jutting ******* seeking cleavers kiss to serve to serve to serve smiling for a relish of wasps she knows she is loved a loved red faced surprise **** mouth, red chirping sparrow wax teeth melting succubus, **** flower gratefully crushed under foot toes like musical notes little pearl ruins   grave stones whipped cream butter cookie in chains stipule corridor **** plume serrations gush, a singing Dahlia ripped rose, thorned and curt plush flames her skull a throat her liturgy weeping, licking gods bulging colossus wakes her inside giving her religion sacrificed on a crucifix of ***** **** of heaven a burning church possessed drooling supplications lustrous saliva web drapes trembling downward thighs a glutinous chandelier melts like silk around ankles crystal silt on scorched heels to serve to serve to serve her happiness is everything her pathos; be kind with cruelty
0
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
zebrablack
How to Treat Your Slave
her happiness is everything her pathos; be kind with cruelty blood and tears, a royal jelly merciless kisses like blazing pyres she cries through a night prayer my push pin princess; a crimson petal nerves edge; jutting ******* seeking cleavers kiss to serve to serve to serve smiling for a relish of wasps she knows she is loved a loved red faced surprise **** mouth, red chirping sparrow wax teeth melting succubus, **** flower gratefully crushed under foot toes like musical notes little pearl ruins   grave stones whipped cream butter cookie in chains stipule corridor **** plume serrations gush, a singing Dahlia ripped rose, thorned and curt plush flames her skull a throat her liturgy weeping, licking gods bulging colossus wakes her inside giving her religion sacrificed on a crucifix of ***** **** of heaven a burning church possessed drooling supplications lustrous saliva web drapes trembling downward thighs a glutinous chandelier melts like silk around ankles crystal silt on scorched heels to serve to serve to serve her happiness is everything her pathos; be kind with cruelty
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46
If my daughter ever comes to me and asks me if I think she is pretty I will say NO You are so much more than pretty you are beautiful If my daughter ever comes to me with tears stains on her face telling me her heart's been broken by the boy she thought was the one even though she may only be 14, or 16, or 21 I will not ask who it was I will simply hold her until the pain stops whether it be minutes or hours or even days and buy her some chocolate, of course If my daughter ever comes to me and shows me the scars on her wrists and her legs and her sides I will not look away horrified I will simply show her how a little bit of time and a little bit of cream can heal all wounds even those of the heart If my daughter ever comes to me and shows me her sharp hip bones jutting out and her soft ribcage peeking out I will not call her crazy or any awful name I will simply hold her soft enough that her bones may not break and walk her along the all too familiar path to recovery If my daughter ever comes to me bleeding and bruised because he didn't know what no meant I will not make her feel ***** I will not make her feel worthless I will not ask why she didn't stop him I will simply calm her victimized heart and show her the many ways to **** a man or a woman if they ever touch her without her consent again I will not judge her for the many nights she may fall asleep crying Instead I will prepare her a cup of tea, buy her some inspirational movies, write her some poems and give her some books Because I know broken souls cannot be fixed over-night I will let her buy dresses that make her feel beautiful and will not laugh at her if she chooses to wear them with tennis shoes I will let her stay home from school every once in a while even if I know she is faking it because I know we all need a break sometimes and I know that school isn't the only place you can learn valuable life lessons If my daughter ever comes to me with a small child in her arms one whom was not exactly planned one whom has no father I will step in and be that father I will be her help But most importantly If my daughter EVER comes to me and confesses her mental illness I will not doubt her I will not mock her I will simply smile at her and assure her she is not alone and will get the means for help For I never want her to know what lonely tastes like
0
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
emilymercados
If I Ever Have A Daughter
If my daughter ever comes to me and asks me if I think she is pretty I will say NO You are so much more than pretty you are beautiful If my daughter ever comes to me with tears stains on her face telling me her heart's been broken by the boy she thought was the one even though she may only be 14, or 16, or 21 I will not ask who it was I will simply hold her until the pain stops whether it be minutes or hours or even days and buy her some chocolate, of course If my daughter ever comes to me and shows me the scars on her wrists and her legs and her sides I will not look away horrified I will simply show her how a little bit of time and a little bit of cream can heal all wounds even those of the heart If my daughter ever comes to me and shows me her sharp hip bones jutting out and her soft ribcage peeking out I will not call her crazy or any awful name I will simply hold her soft enough that her bones may not break and walk her along the all too familiar path to recovery If my daughter ever comes to me bleeding and bruised because he didn't know what no meant I will not make her feel ***** I will not make her feel worthless I will not ask why she didn't stop him I will simply calm her victimized heart and show her the many ways to **** a man or a woman if they ever touch her without her consent again I will not judge her for the many nights she may fall asleep crying Instead I will prepare her a cup of tea, buy her some inspirational movies, write her some poems and give her some books Because I know broken souls cannot be fixed over-night I will let her buy dresses that make her feel beautiful and will not laugh at her if she chooses to wear them with tennis shoes I will let her stay home from school every once in a while even if I know she is faking it because I know we all need a break sometimes and I know that school isn't the only place you can learn valuable life lessons If my daughter ever comes to me with a small child in her arms one whom was not exactly planned one whom has no father I will step in and be that father I will be her help But most importantly If my daughter EVER comes to me and confesses her mental illness I will not doubt her I will not mock her I will simply smile at her and assure her she is not alone and will get the means for help For I never want her to know what lonely tastes like
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78
city in the shadow of a mountain like denver on vacation shady and deep flowing down like the river seeking centre houses cling to the crags like barnacles inverted ship cavity jutting out of the rainforest paradise of truants and travellers eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches and displaced ***** enthusiasts sailors without floatation treading land and bills and PTA meetings cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights rivers under troubled bridges fish suffocating underwater living on the refuse of the nuclear generation transmuting the lead into sustainable energy recycling the atmosphere into breathable air apathetic anarchists return from extremity living on the dole or working for the man we are building something greater than this
0
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
adamstruble
bridges
city in the shadow of a mountain like denver on vacation shady and deep flowing down like the river seeking centre houses cling to the crags like barnacles inverted ship cavity jutting out of the rainforest paradise of truants and travellers eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches and displaced ***** enthusiasts sailors without floatation treading land and bills and PTA meetings cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights rivers under troubled bridges fish suffocating underwater living on the refuse of the nuclear generation transmuting the lead into sustainable energy recycling the atmosphere into breathable air apathetic anarchists return from extremity living on the dole or working for the man we are building something greater than this
Continue reading...
23
this is irrational. in mathematics, the human reasoning - there will always be some sort of radical fallacy shoved into the equation. you. you sir, are what i call irrational. i can't lie when i say that i'm quite fond over how tall you stand, like a mountain. like a king. you don't rule the valleys and praries of your people, but you've found power along capalliries and veins. this box jutting irregularly in my chest is what you rule. i could construct motes and bridges and stone castle walls to keep you from getting in, but i can't deny i've always wanted to be a queen. your queen. i've never wanted so badly to rule your world. to take the throne and call you mine.
0
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
lisa-benson
something i wrote for you back in the day
this is irrational. in mathematics, the human reasoning - there will always be some sort of radical fallacy shoved into the equation. you. you sir, are what i call irrational. i can't lie when i say that i'm quite fond over how tall you stand, like a mountain. like a king. you don't rule the valleys and praries of your people, but you've found power along capalliries and veins. this box jutting irregularly in my chest is what you rule. i could construct motes and bridges and stone castle walls to keep you from getting in, but i can't deny i've always wanted to be a queen. your queen. i've never wanted so badly to rule your world. to take the throne and call you mine.
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1
It's not OCD I'm just anal-rententive. There are two coffee urns in my office kitchenette. Each urn has a spot to place your mug beneath the spigot. Each of these spots has a circular insert of gridded plastic to mark the mug-placement area and allow spilled coffee to flow through so this spot doesn't become just a puddle of coffee soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs. Each of these inserts has three indentations: one on each side at nine and three o'clock small, arcing parabolas like reversed parentheses there to allow someone to get their fingers into the coffee mug spot and under the insert to remove it and, presumably clean it and then another indentation more like a groove or a notch much smaller, thinner, and deeper at the top that fits perfectly with a matching small plastic protuberance jutting from the coffee mug spot where the insert goes. In an almost ****** fashion this protuberance fits into this last indentation this notch this groove to secure the insert in place. For some reason I've never known perhaps laziness perhaps inattentiveness more likely simple couldn't-care-less-ness this insert never seems to be placed into the mug spot properly. It is always placed sideways rotated a quarter-turn so that the larger indentations on the side meant as finger holes are placed top-to-bottom noon and six the small plastic protuberance at the top being swallowed whole by the too-large indentation and its mate the groove meant to hold the plastic piece so tightly is left alone to one side empty and useless. This has always bothered me. Bothered me more than I would like to admit. It's such a simple little thing to get right it would take almost no effort at all and yet, day-after-day someone I don't know who whoever is in charge of these things insists on doing it wrong. And I cannot abide it. So, day-after-day when I go to get my morning coffee I fix it I twist the insert ninety-degrees and secure it in the correct position. Lately I have noticed something. Sometimes when I go to get my coffee one of the inserts will already be fixed. Someone else has seen what I have seen and felt the same had the same response took the same corrective action. This feels like winning something. I don't know what but it definitely smells like Victory. And Conspiracy. And it makes me happy. Happier than I'd like to admit.
0
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
michael-valentine
It's Not OCD
It's not OCD I'm just anal-rententive. There are two coffee urns in my office kitchenette. Each urn has a spot to place your mug beneath the spigot. Each of these spots has a circular insert of gridded plastic to mark the mug-placement area and allow spilled coffee to flow through so this spot doesn't become just a puddle of coffee soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs. Each of these inserts has three indentations: one on each side at nine and three o'clock small, arcing parabolas like reversed parentheses there to allow someone to get their fingers into the coffee mug spot and under the insert to remove it and, presumably clean it and then another indentation more like a groove or a notch much smaller, thinner, and deeper at the top that fits perfectly with a matching small plastic protuberance jutting from the coffee mug spot where the insert goes. In an almost ****** fashion this protuberance fits into this last indentation this notch this groove to secure the insert in place. For some reason I've never known perhaps laziness perhaps inattentiveness more likely simple couldn't-care-less-ness this insert never seems to be placed into the mug spot properly. It is always placed sideways rotated a quarter-turn so that the larger indentations on the side meant as finger holes are placed top-to-bottom noon and six the small plastic protuberance at the top being swallowed whole by the too-large indentation and its mate the groove meant to hold the plastic piece so tightly is left alone to one side empty and useless. This has always bothered me. Bothered me more than I would like to admit. It's such a simple little thing to get right it would take almost no effort at all and yet, day-after-day someone I don't know who whoever is in charge of these things insists on doing it wrong. And I cannot abide it. So, day-after-day when I go to get my morning coffee I fix it I twist the insert ninety-degrees and secure it in the correct position. Lately I have noticed something. Sometimes when I go to get my coffee one of the inserts will already be fixed. Someone else has seen what I have seen and felt the same had the same response took the same corrective action. This feels like winning something. I don't know what but it definitely smells like Victory. And Conspiracy. And it makes me happy. Happier than I'd like to admit.
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107
White rocks jutting from Ching stream The weather's cold, red leaves few No rain at all on the paths in the hills Clothes are wet with the blue air.
0
4.2k
Wang Wei
In The Hills
White rocks jutting from Ching stream The weather's cold, red leaves few No rain at all on the paths in the hills Clothes are wet with the blue air.
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4
Tall round beams standing in salty water, connecting fishermen and star-fish gazers with a moon-shaped bay on the eastern Pacific. They stand on land and step into sea, as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds tickle their lower legs. A centipede of wood, this outward- jutting wharf. The fishermen sink expectant hooks; the surfers haul shiny glass banana-shaped boards of foam; the weekenders come posing baby strollers for picture shooting. Each passing wall of blue energy slows at reach of shallow sand, deciding whether to keep rolling or transform into a steep stack of snapping water. On big days the sea legs shake all the fishermen. They lock away their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes and collapse their fibered rods. On calm days I step out to a wooden bench and hang my face between the rails. Running people pass below, between the knotted hips and creosoted thighs. August buries this preserve in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling inside their sleek robes of white feather, leaning windward on worn bent knees.
0
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
tom-mccubbin
Old Wharf on the Bay
Tall round beams standing in salty water, connecting fishermen and star-fish gazers with a moon-shaped bay on the eastern Pacific. They stand on land and step into sea, as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds tickle their lower legs. A centipede of wood, this outward- jutting wharf. The fishermen sink expectant hooks; the surfers haul shiny glass banana-shaped boards of foam; the weekenders come posing baby strollers for picture shooting. Each passing wall of blue energy slows at reach of shallow sand, deciding whether to keep rolling or transform into a steep stack of snapping water. On big days the sea legs shake all the fishermen. They lock away their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes and collapse their fibered rods. On calm days I step out to a wooden bench and hang my face between the rails. Running people pass below, between the knotted hips and creosoted thighs. August buries this preserve in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling inside their sleek robes of white feather, leaning windward on worn bent knees.
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35
~ dad said she'd be famous ~ *"...a doctor or diva like lena horne,"* he said he'd been doing odd day jobs and driving cabs deep into the night through  these mean city streets since ella's debut at the apollo and his smile grew wider than jackie o's reservoir in central park when this bouncing baby girl made her grand debut into his world the dimples on her cherub caramel cheeks were irresistibly pinchable and those twinkling eyes knew she'd be spoiled infinitely like a fruit-fly in a box of rotten apples ~ reality check ~ ....if you look closely you might still see one dimple; but the twinkles departed back in '75 ....and the burns on her fingertips and blistered lips ....and the bones.... jutting  like the bones of refugees and anorexics ....missing flesh ...and the tracks on her forearms and filthy jeans .....and the eyes.... shifting like the eyes of senators and thieves ....telling lies .....and the rotting corpse in a black garbage bag in fresh kills multiple choices removed from the doctor and diva of daddy's dreams hijacked by dream-killers: *smack       crack   and addiction* ~ P (Pablo) (8/1/2013)
0
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
james-g-paul-sr-aka-pablo
Daddy's Dreamgirl...
~ dad said she'd be famous ~ *"...a doctor or diva like lena horne,"* he said he'd been doing odd day jobs and driving cabs deep into the night through  these mean city streets since ella's debut at the apollo and his smile grew wider than jackie o's reservoir in central park when this bouncing baby girl made her grand debut into his world the dimples on her cherub caramel cheeks were irresistibly pinchable and those twinkling eyes knew she'd be spoiled infinitely like a fruit-fly in a box of rotten apples ~ reality check ~ ....if you look closely you might still see one dimple; but the twinkles departed back in '75 ....and the burns on her fingertips and blistered lips ....and the bones.... jutting  like the bones of refugees and anorexics ....missing flesh ...and the tracks on her forearms and filthy jeans .....and the eyes.... shifting like the eyes of senators and thieves ....telling lies .....and the rotting corpse in a black garbage bag in fresh kills multiple choices removed from the doctor and diva of daddy's dreams hijacked by dream-killers: *smack       crack   and addiction* ~ P (Pablo) (8/1/2013)
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54
I wake up and see so many things, always different from yesterday. Today I'm going fishing. But I must not allow myself to focus on the worms or on the death of the worms, We went out early in the morning, before sunrise, The early bird catches the worm; the early worm catches the prize. And we caught many more than the others!! Getting up before sunrise is a secret known to the wise. On the end of my cane pole, a bamboo stick, really, hangs a thin fishing line, about twenty feet out, Attached with a bobbin, a lead sinker and a hook Threaded on the hook is the worm which I've lowered into the water from the pole I'm dangling from the low dock jutting out into the pond I see the first fish I catch! I feel powerful and horrible and proud at being the best! My catch is the biggest one yet! It is similar to a cat chasing a bird. The bird is innocent, but the cat gives in to the chase with no ill will, instead, blessed by God, the gift...to be a cat. It is not easy being a cat. God gave to the cat, nine lives to fall back on, in case of being thrown off a roof by a ruthless boy who is curious to see if it will land on it's feet. The cat is now down to eight A bird chased by a teenage kitten must learn to fly if it's to survive. Nature's timing for the offspring does not support favoritism. But it happens anyway. There is always one in the nest That the mother bird loves the best.
0
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 11:31 AM UTC
susan-hunt
A Cat And A Bird
I wake up and see so many things, always different from yesterday. Today I'm going fishing. But I must not allow myself to focus on the worms or on the death of the worms, We went out early in the morning, before sunrise, The early bird catches the worm; the early worm catches the prize. And we caught many more than the others!! Getting up before sunrise is a secret known to the wise. On the end of my cane pole, a bamboo stick, really, hangs a thin fishing line, about twenty feet out, Attached with a bobbin, a lead sinker and a hook Threaded on the hook is the worm which I've lowered into the water from the pole I'm dangling from the low dock jutting out into the pond I see the first fish I catch! I feel powerful and horrible and proud at being the best! My catch is the biggest one yet! It is similar to a cat chasing a bird. The bird is innocent, but the cat gives in to the chase with no ill will, instead, blessed by God, the gift...to be a cat. It is not easy being a cat. God gave to the cat, nine lives to fall back on, in case of being thrown off a roof by a ruthless boy who is curious to see if it will land on it's feet. The cat is now down to eight A bird chased by a teenage kitten must learn to fly if it's to survive. Nature's timing for the offspring does not support favoritism. But it happens anyway. There is always one in the nest That the mother bird loves the best.
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44
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands with chipped tired pale-pink nailpolish flutter in the air, describing. three froofy perms one browny-gray one white one salt and pepper bob jutting forward, one wobbles a little. Grandma wears a green-foam party hat with a thin, white elastic band that runs under her wrinkled chin it sits atop her fuzzy perm comically... she smiles at me. "Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?" she chucks her great-granddaughter under the chin, grins "oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones." she hands them to her white-haired sister aunt cidi told me this year she is ninety-one oh, and the gloves were really blue. aunt cidi misses uncle harland he was buried three or four years ago in his uniform i remember sitting next to him at awkward family reunions eating hotdogs i never saw so much mustard in my life he could never hear me when i tried to talk to him but he smiled anyway. the talk turns serious suddenly over our black coffee crossed legs sweaters and chocolate cake grandma turns grim in her lime-green party hat "did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?" aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit she squints wrinkles her nose "i TRIED to!" she scowls. schemes of ****** plotted by three chunky-earringed sweet old ladies who are a little late for the 1940's but never too late for a handsome soldier "we're older..." says aunt jeanie "but not THAT old!" they all giggle.
0
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Redshift
how to ****** a trumpet vine.
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands with chipped tired pale-pink nailpolish flutter in the air, describing. three froofy perms one browny-gray one white one salt and pepper bob jutting forward, one wobbles a little. Grandma wears a green-foam party hat with a thin, white elastic band that runs under her wrinkled chin it sits atop her fuzzy perm comically... she smiles at me. "Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?" she chucks her great-granddaughter under the chin, grins "oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones." she hands them to her white-haired sister aunt cidi told me this year she is ninety-one oh, and the gloves were really blue. aunt cidi misses uncle harland he was buried three or four years ago in his uniform i remember sitting next to him at awkward family reunions eating hotdogs i never saw so much mustard in my life he could never hear me when i tried to talk to him but he smiled anyway. the talk turns serious suddenly over our black coffee crossed legs sweaters and chocolate cake grandma turns grim in her lime-green party hat "did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?" aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit she squints wrinkles her nose "i TRIED to!" she scowls. schemes of ****** plotted by three chunky-earringed sweet old ladies who are a little late for the 1940's but never too late for a handsome soldier "we're older..." says aunt jeanie "but not THAT old!" they all giggle.
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74
One could hardly distinguish between the hue of the sky and the industrial water tower jutting his head above the horizon, the depths of the city’s flat rooftops. Smoking from steel grey Rhodesians, controverting the horizon.
0
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
selenazb
A Documentation of the Sky for Seven Days: Wednesday
One could hardly distinguish between the hue of the sky and the industrial water tower jutting his head above the horizon, the depths of the city’s flat rooftops. Smoking from steel grey Rhodesians, controverting the horizon.
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7
Skinhead super short military hair with a strong jawline jutting out I saw you One random blindingly hot afternoon In a jeep I tried to squeeze in the small space so the two guys could scoot over You’re the guy to my right Reluctant to pass to the driver my exact change You sat upright Your right arm lifted, hand closed on the security rail I could only see your profile Your jawline and Aviators Mouth set in a deadpan line Lean, quietly confident Dressed casually and carefully Odd eggplant-colored shirt over whitewashed jeans You turned slightly, your nose strong chin dignified skin clean, with slight blemishes of stress Pretty eyes That never landed on me Your lips slightly curved as if remembering something You are beautiful Arrogant-looking Bored Worldly You’re not from here Not from common places Not from this wretched community I belong to Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head, An inscription was tattooed at the back of your skull. Your hair growing, beginning to cover up the past? A dangerous past? New life? A mere change of look? Where are you going? Where are you from? Why are you taking this route to and from common places? What is your agenda on this high afternoon? Are you a rockstar? Are you a poet A gangster? Then finally it’s my stop. I got up and wished you were following behind That we have the same destination Just so I could look at you in full view I stepped into the sad, bright afternoon Then I turned around You’re not there You sped away To some place Some life With your Aviators And your principles And it hurt That I never even knew what your tattoo meant
0
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
sterph
Tattooed Guy
Skinhead super short military hair with a strong jawline jutting out I saw you One random blindingly hot afternoon In a jeep I tried to squeeze in the small space so the two guys could scoot over You’re the guy to my right Reluctant to pass to the driver my exact change You sat upright Your right arm lifted, hand closed on the security rail I could only see your profile Your jawline and Aviators Mouth set in a deadpan line Lean, quietly confident Dressed casually and carefully Odd eggplant-colored shirt over whitewashed jeans You turned slightly, your nose strong chin dignified skin clean, with slight blemishes of stress Pretty eyes That never landed on me Your lips slightly curved as if remembering something You are beautiful Arrogant-looking Bored Worldly You’re not from here Not from common places Not from this wretched community I belong to Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head, An inscription was tattooed at the back of your skull. Your hair growing, beginning to cover up the past? A dangerous past? New life? A mere change of look? Where are you going? Where are you from? Why are you taking this route to and from common places? What is your agenda on this high afternoon? Are you a rockstar? Are you a poet A gangster? Then finally it’s my stop. I got up and wished you were following behind That we have the same destination Just so I could look at you in full view I stepped into the sad, bright afternoon Then I turned around You’re not there You sped away To some place Some life With your Aviators And your principles And it hurt That I never even knew what your tattoo meant
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77
The Eclipse The eclipse dose not become endless night The reappearance of light is the same as the survival of soul The eclipse Such indeed a character of the historic hour through which the world was passing Objects close to the eye shut out much larger objects on the horizon A quiet  and unexpected  change, That looked  the desultory range Of happiness  and sprightly thought. Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, The direction of winds  danced round us as before, As lightly, though of altered hue; Mid recent coolness, such as falls At noon-tide from umbrageous walls That screen the morning dew. No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud Cast far or near a murky shroud; The sky an azure field displayed; 'There was light  sheathed and gently charmed, Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, And as in slumber laid:-- Or something night and day between, Like moon shine--but the hue was green; Still moon shine, without shadow, spread On jutting rock, and curved shore
0
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
azubuogu-chinwendu-chukwudi
THE ECLIPSE
The Eclipse The eclipse dose not become endless night The reappearance of light is the same as the survival of soul The eclipse Such indeed a character of the historic hour through which the world was passing Objects close to the eye shut out much larger objects on the horizon A quiet  and unexpected  change, That looked  the desultory range Of happiness  and sprightly thought. Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, The direction of winds  danced round us as before, As lightly, though of altered hue; Mid recent coolness, such as falls At noon-tide from umbrageous walls That screen the morning dew. No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud Cast far or near a murky shroud; The sky an azure field displayed; 'There was light  sheathed and gently charmed, Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, And as in slumber laid:-- Or something night and day between, Like moon shine--but the hue was green; Still moon shine, without shadow, spread On jutting rock, and curved shore
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33
A mansion reeking of mystery and *** Unlike your parties, the brain is the hex Who's got the most phantastic story Stitch the real hunters with unreal quarries By candlelight she writes in her mind Death-obsessed, web-like bind Study the corpse, exhume the dead Fresher the better, revive the head Harvest the organs, strike a chord Of nerve tissue and spinal cords Touch your jutting collar bone Think there's no place like home Electric frogs and pinwheel rats What do you think about that Run from the monster disfigured It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger Go worship all your seraphim Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him Where have you gone Prometheus Were you our guest or just an atheist Yeah, wonders come in clear handcuffs You're only safe anonymous Oh, it's dead and it's jiving in no man's hands Oh, it's alive and it's lying in no man's land Electric frogs and pinwheel rats What do you think about that Run from the monster disfigured It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger Go worship all your seraphim Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him
0
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
lucy-tonic
Electric Frogs
A mansion reeking of mystery and *** Unlike your parties, the brain is the hex Who's got the most phantastic story Stitch the real hunters with unreal quarries By candlelight she writes in her mind Death-obsessed, web-like bind Study the corpse, exhume the dead Fresher the better, revive the head Harvest the organs, strike a chord Of nerve tissue and spinal cords Touch your jutting collar bone Think there's no place like home Electric frogs and pinwheel rats What do you think about that Run from the monster disfigured It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger Go worship all your seraphim Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him Where have you gone Prometheus Were you our guest or just an atheist Yeah, wonders come in clear handcuffs You're only safe anonymous Oh, it's dead and it's jiving in no man's hands Oh, it's alive and it's lying in no man's land Electric frogs and pinwheel rats What do you think about that Run from the monster disfigured It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger Go worship all your seraphim Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him
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30
The dream haunts me often, far too often, building in intensity but is initially disguised in absurdity and the nonsense of a young man's lusts with an old man's deficits. This woman-like entity, ill-defined at first but forming voluptuously, emerges from swelling curtains. She moves, more levitates, toward my bed, buoyed by what I don't know, but angelic-like it would seem. Or perhaps an Aphrodite reincarnate? Oh this goddess, what pale skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed, jutting ******* ***** that beckon, nearly drool, and pursed red lips beaded with sweet juice stolen from the wild cherry tree beneath my window. Far too much clarity for a simple dream. But such a dream! And what seething testosterone I feel! I am become a hedonist, raging, pulsing spermatozoa, renewed of time and youthful energies. Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly impaling the other on this love bed to the result that each cell of our individualities melds. We are indistinct, yes - as one, and any ****** impulse between us is shared to the point of utter exhaustion, depletion. I am nearly drained of life, it would seem. Then, as it always must, the scene changes, Act II. Inexplicably, shedding a ****** serpentine-like skin, she slings it away and drops limply upon me - entirely skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless, sexless, motionless. The horror of a diabolical hollowness stares through me, and I am suspended, fully terrorized, in this paralysis. So, this is succumbing to the Succubus? God, my dear God, that I should never dream again! --
0
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
warren-gossett
Succumbing to the Succubus
The dream haunts me often, far too often, building in intensity but is initially disguised in absurdity and the nonsense of a young man's lusts with an old man's deficits. This woman-like entity, ill-defined at first but forming voluptuously, emerges from swelling curtains. She moves, more levitates, toward my bed, buoyed by what I don't know, but angelic-like it would seem. Or perhaps an Aphrodite reincarnate? Oh this goddess, what pale skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed, jutting ******* ***** that beckon, nearly drool, and pursed red lips beaded with sweet juice stolen from the wild cherry tree beneath my window. Far too much clarity for a simple dream. But such a dream! And what seething testosterone I feel! I am become a hedonist, raging, pulsing spermatozoa, renewed of time and youthful energies. Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly impaling the other on this love bed to the result that each cell of our individualities melds. We are indistinct, yes - as one, and any ****** impulse between us is shared to the point of utter exhaustion, depletion. I am nearly drained of life, it would seem. Then, as it always must, the scene changes, Act II. Inexplicably, shedding a ****** serpentine-like skin, she slings it away and drops limply upon me - entirely skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless, sexless, motionless. The horror of a diabolical hollowness stares through me, and I am suspended, fully terrorized, in this paralysis. So, this is succumbing to the Succubus? God, my dear God, that I should never dream again! --
Continue reading...
51