"silkiest" poems
The fearless instraction.
The love of things, willow.
The newness of strings in a row.
A topic injusted,
A fated carnation.
Lapelled in your silkiest glow.
I want you not nearly.
Horizoning sunburst.
You're the fewest that I'll ever know.
I'll meet you on morrows.
With clumsiest wordings.
You're the seeds that I've not seen to sow.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
I'm going to cover your heart in bubble wrap,
shout to the universe to never dare to drop it again,
and carry it in my arms
so tight to my chest
that your heart may just merge into one with mine
and we can just beat together.
we'll share a duvet of bubble wrap
and I'll let you pull the whole thing
so it covers you,
and I'll still be warm
from the closeness of our
intertwining arteries
and the silkiest blood we pass between them.
I'll be lathered in your crimson fuel
and call it the race of our love.
I don't think you need to be shielded,
and I know you don't need me to shield you,
but just one layer of bubble wrap
won't hurt anyone,
right?
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 5:40 AM UTC
It's night.
and nimbly
she - well not quite dances.
But entrances me.
My mind fumbles.
It's spinning.
There is
music there.
it emanates from her body in
Neon notes.
They free float.
It's a smoothe picture to swallow.
But they are stuck in my throat.
(like my wordless hope
that she'll lean in,
halt her dance,
just long enough to press her lips
to mine)
she resonates with every note and
she dances like the silkiest spoken
word.
Limbs
sway
she makes
day
break
Stealing the color
of neon skies
Fluid in her every stroke
the same electric blues,reflecting in her eyes,
Her gaze set fire to my haze,
Struck a chord inside my chest,
the note somehow complementing
the delicate sway of her hips.
her lips, where the tip of my tongue could only dare to caress
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
As you breath,
With trapped lungs,
Like a fly caught,
In the silkiest of webs.
Her manifold shell,
Multiple eyes of harrowing,
A succubus to the harmless,
dampening a gentle candle lit,
In sheer darkness.
******* on our blood,
Like a hundred leaches,
Her nature thicker than mud.
Fluid runs smooth,
like ash and water,
but she stains your heart,
in gray poisonous matter,
Using you like puppet on strings,
from the very start.
She hides behind the lies,
That she fills within your head,
like a hot air balloon,
soaring through skies,
Unaware of what's below,
Avoid prickly skinned women,
They'll eat you alive.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
You walk across the restaurant, sit down
and fold your legs precisely so your dress
conceals the barest minimum. Around
your shoulders, silkiest of wraps caress
one side, and wantonly slides off the other
to leave a naked arm spaghetti-strapped,
suggesting what might later be uncovered.
Your eyes meet mine, warm mysteries. So apt
from what I know of you this point in time.
We speak of writing, theater, and Bach,
mingling voices, counterpoint sublime;
laughing undercurrents as we talk.
I want to say you needn't try so hard;
it hits me you're not trying...you just are.
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
Desires vs. Reality
4/14/2014
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather, I'm starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad.
There's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to notice that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean, I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I suppose I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town.
In these walls.
In me.
However, now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it, for now.
Potential.
I want, so badly, to be able to paint like Millais.
I want, so badly, to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want, so badly, to explore, and be ever so determined and inspired, as Darwin.
I want, so badly, to dazzle and dance across the screen, like Hayworth and Astaire.
But, alas, I can do none of these things.
I am just a girl. Nothing special. Least not to anyone else.
I cannot be what I long to be, and it breaks my heart.
I cannot paint, or dance, or sing-
but I can breathe!
and live!
and write!
Though maybe no good at all, by God, I will write!
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God, nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights, and fifty eyes on upon me.
I may not be who I dream to be, but ****** I will continue to be until the stars pluck me from the Earth and dance with me.
Until my feet are lifted off the Earth, and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter.
Or Venus.
Or Saturn.
And there, I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer!
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn!
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson!
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly!
And I shall dine with a thousand queens, and lay in the silkiest of sheets!
But until then, I shall simply live.
I shall live a life devoted to words, and I promise to write whenever inspired, and dance whenever music plays, and sing, as loudly as I please, simply because I can.
And I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And I promise to be kind to the universe.
And lastly, I promise to live,
and breathe,
and be,
because,
well,
the universe does indeed have plans for me.
Copyright © 2014 Scarlet Van Allen
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather,
I'm,
starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad,
there's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to realize that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean,
I suppose I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town,
in these walls,
in me.
However,
now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it.
For now.
Potential.
I just,
I want,
so badly,
to paint like Millais.
I want,
so badly,
to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want,
so badly,
to be ever so determined and inspired as Darwin.
I want,
so badly,
to sing and dance across the stage like Hayworth and Astaire.
But alas,
I can do none of those things.
I am just a girl.
Nothing special.
Least not to anyone else.
I cannot paint,
or dance,
or sing.
But I can live,
and breathe,
and write!
Though maybe no good at all,
by God,
I will write.
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights,
and 50 eyes upon me.
I may not be who I dream to be,
but ******
I will continue to be,
until the stars pluck me from this Earth and dance with me.
Until my feet are lifted off the ground,
and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter,
or Venus,
or Saturn.
And there,
there,
I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer.
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn.
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson.
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly.
And I shall dine with a thousand queens,
and lay in the silkiest of sheets!
But until then,
I shall simply live.
I shall live a life devoted to words,
and I promise to write whenever inspired,
and dance whenever music plays,
and sing as loudly as I please,
simply because I can.
And I promise to be kind to the universe,
and I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And above all,
I promise to live.
And breathe.
And be.
Because,
well.
The universe does indeed have plans for me.
© 2014 Rembrin Hawke
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
What is left to say if simply transcribing another's antidotes
Will not knowing an idiom from a metaphor automatically make me an idiot?
Left to our own devices now will be up to the reader who surmises or denotes
Will particles of paraphrases become our own, simply a contest to find the wittiest?
Alliteration in our communication stresses our sounds like more bass from out throats
Faced with future facsimiles will we ponder to produce our own or leave us inexperienced
Seemingly sly salutations setting by the wayside wishing to be brought forward for their own votes
Smooth as a baby's **** some configurations combine to make them the silkiest
Sometimes simple silly slogans become our deepest thought leaving little to decode
Tricky trusty truisms tantalize while beige boring subtitles often stand the test
Reaching for fruit that will fall anyway,does it become easier to the take the lesser road
Reading and receiving often one sided or deceiving, playing differently when put into
writing it will now be left to the reader to decode. R.C.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
I cried out
in between the chattering leaves
the wind whistling through the trees
I heard the faint whispers of you
I leapt forward
into hope and faith
as the vast love
of your infinite arms embraced me
I fell into grace
inside the silkiest of carmine petals
As your beauty bequeathed me
I saw my perfection through you
I surrendered unequivocally
To the truth
********** the lies
While you rebirthed me
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC