Brider Olen Aug 2016
Em
I wonder if you were
reading
b e t w e e n  t h e  l i n e s
when I told you to
keep your distance --

when you're painting the air
with your tongue,

your words
dance around the room
and
kiss the pockets of my skin
in a way that
leaves me breathless

and that should be
evidence enough:

all I’m thinking about
is what I want you
to
paint
next
There is art
In your heart
Painting pictures
When I lay
My head on your chest

There are songs in your eyes
Singing lullabies
When you hoover
Pin me down
With your stare

There is a poem
On the tip
Of your tong
I taste it
When I kiss you

You are tortured
Stereotyped
My jaded lover
I hear it
When you won't talk
My French Gem
The Rose tickler
finely handwritten

The movie part gave
her the sign life
crossed over gem
French kiss the morning
The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun

Double touched but forbidden
On the Cheetah necklace chase
The French Lieutenant 
 her body and lips moonstruck
On her chaise
To get over it another work of art
that got more attention

To revive her from drowning in
the gem scattered like a
benevolent
blue splat philanthropic
Looking more into his unknown
diving suit mixed
with envy green how she got mixed into
the stranger of Poison Ivy
Her love didn't show all her
attributes God spiritually well
She went to the pastry heart
how it flaked all
over like crystals
He was patiently sitting but got persuaded
That little gem of the lounge
Her firey gem was the canary
that got his tongue
Her gem stands taller  
The crafted lines of quality in the
Pillars

"Le Bonheur De  Vivre Gem-Art"

French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting

      He's transformed.

Shape heart delicate uniform.

"Parisians on a mission
A kiss is a serious manner
  LOVE" Gem birth opens her
He modifies her rainbow
Artwork of brush yellow
twinset platter hello fellow

the essence beloved to follow
So worth her wait being watched
By the crystal rock, he loved her
going up in spirit or she falls for him
The gem to be it

Magical modernly gem -fit clock.

See through hands meditation harp.

Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp.

Lips movement beyond hearts.

Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts.

Artesian heels tapping boots.

Fall for Autumn love cahoots.

Beloved, divinely he's the healer.

The picture spoke she's the winner.

Wilderness he glides kisses prints.

Pushing her waves hints.

Everlasting one thought he's guessing?

Art never part beautify stem.

Eyes so genuine he's her gem.
This is the French Gem Europen setting like an artist love
graphically so smooth but cool would you want to be her gem being loved by him
Slinging the heavy wooden cross over his shoulder, he stood weary and tired; it was fastened to his ankle by a lengthy metal chain. The lights of the pier stood like ancient statues, passing judgment on anemic sinners.  As he trudged forth, he saw a small boy and girl sitting side by side, fishing off the edge of the pier. He knew them as mother and father. A thick moonlight illuminated the backs of their heads; A mournful sensation came over him. Maybe it's the dope that causes him to think this way.

Coming to the end of the pier, he saw all the ocean liners in the expanse of the night.
Carrying hundreds, possibly thousands of people. Lights reflected off the water like some nearly tangible reality. Reminded him of a Bob Ross painting that looked unfinished. He lifted the cross over the railing and let it plummet the thirty or so feet. He sailed over seconds later.

When he woke, he was still in his little hovel. A salty odor came rolling off the Dead Sea. He wakes as an unknown entity. A man in exile.
Not sure about writing poems in this format.
It's a start.
thejohnags Jul 6
you're lost in the wild
you don't know where you are,
you don't know what to do,
so you're dying in the dark.

you're looking for a trace
you're looking for a place,
but all you get is this maze
you should've seen your face
you got burned, got cornered
no turns, just liars.

and when you try to seek out the exit,
you find the monsters in your closet
smiling, waiting, hungry to dive in
you can run, but you can't hide
you can try, but you'll be found

so you're lonely in the streets,
you've been sleeping there, no sheets
you're looking for a mirror, looking for a lover,
looking for a mother, looking for a savior,
but you're alone, child.
but are you lone, child?
are you gonna cry now? be brave child.

the time is ticking
the game you're playing,
it's never ending,
but try to win it.

you say you're fine,
but you hope with fright.
you curse your life,
cuz it's killing you with pride.

the door is open,
but it says closed
your heart is breaking,
but you got no one to hold.

so you hold onto your dreams:
bright, and thriving lights, NYC
but is it worth it? can you chase it?
can you catch it? or miss all of it?

you sit in the corner of the bed
you're thinking about life, you're thinking about death
you're thinking about your friends, you're thinking about your family
when you thought of yourself, you thought of yourself lastly.

you sit and think about living
what to do to learn? what to do to earn?
how to keep up the pace?
how to dance in the rain?
and why are you lonely in this sick, crazy game?

so you wake up in the streets
the air is warm, so you smile, and you breathe
looking for dime, looking for a rhyme,
looking for more time, looking for your prime

looking for a flower,
looking for a paper,
cuz that is what you're best at:
painting words then you're a goner.
s Dec 2017
when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your stories that lack plots,
it makes me ponder
what boredom means to me
and why it’s beauty that I find
in apparent mundanity.

you colour my life in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing and poetic, underrated way.
Grey - the soul of every colour in the world;
Invisible and aligned - right between extremes -
like all things well designed ought to be.

Or maybe because grey
feels like routine,
and you’re the everyday
that's to come and that has been.

you're where I set my bar for normal;
you're my Sunday night pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense, and my reality check,
my perspective lens, my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette  I've come to adore,
painting magic in monochrome.
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