"smothered" poems - Hello Poetry

Today it’s Lips Lips Lips I am obsessed With red Or black Lips Goth Jeweled Pierced Lips Uncovered Or smothered With lipstick It doesn’t matter Even though It will pass But in poetry Right now It’s lips lips lips

0

May 12, 2015

May 12, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC

graff1980

Lips

Today it’s Lips Lips Lips I am obsessed With red Or black Lips Goth Jeweled Pierced Lips Uncovered Or smothered With lipstick It doesn’t matter Even though It will pass But in poetry Right now It’s lips lips lips

21

I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

0

Jun 4, 2018

Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC

jaysblue

Stupidest Things

I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

1

smuggled in for a lucrative trade beaten, bartered broken in, until i obey i used to be childlike innocent and safe now i’m someone else's treasure a strangers pleasure smothered in shame.

0

Mar 22, 2015

Mar 22, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC

myriahJ

Trafficking

smuggled in for a lucrative trade beaten, bartered broken in, until i obey i used to be childlike innocent and safe now i’m someone else's treasure a strangers pleasure smothered in shame.

8

and i am eleven again feeling like tomorrow is a couple yesterday's ago smothered in cayenne pepper hot enough to take off taste buds and tonight i am eating a meal only worth burning it tastes like my parents anniversary it tastes like a zinfandel left on the counter too long it's a bad story, see there's no silverware 'cause my mom sold it to keep the lights on and somewhere in heaven somebody in a suit doing commentary on this fiasco is telling someone else in a suit that "you have to eat love with your hands" so we sit, four plates on the table for the two of us my brother's long gone dad's even further away & he's not the one who's buried i carry both their names like anchors that i cannot unmoor from while she looks at the empty table and says something about the news she says something else but she's not talking we aren't proud of this, see my dad likes to wax his car he's proud of it and my mom says she sees a lot of him in my hands says, i touch the things i find like they didn't belong to people sleeping in the ground she says i touch photo albums the same way- you know, i never used to believe that history could repeat itself not until i could fast forward seventeen years and still wake up to smoke alarms how i would go into our kitchen to find it empty and the dinner smoldering & my mother in her bedroom looking through family photos like it's a just another summer day and the sirens are just the birds i don't ask, i never say a word in this moment i am an archeologist afraid to dig up the past cause history repeats itself- you see my brother is dead and my father is gone they have been for some years now and my mother sometimes forgets and sets their place at the table like they're still here and in the confusion ends up ankle deep in pictures of how it used to be she let's dinner burn and douses it in red pepper hoping i won't know the difference

0

Oct 10, 2014

Oct 10, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC

TomLeveille

jamais vu

and i am eleven again feeling like tomorrow is a couple yesterday's ago smothered in cayenne pepper hot enough to take off taste buds and tonight i am eating a meal only worth burning it tastes like my parents anniversary it tastes like a zinfandel left on the counter too long it's a bad story, see there's no silverware 'cause my mom sold it to keep the lights on and somewhere in heaven somebody in a suit doing commentary on this fiasco is telling someone else in a suit that "you have to eat love with your hands" so we sit, four plates on the table for the two of us my brother's long gone dad's even further away & he's not the one who's buried i carry both their names like anchors that i cannot unmoor from while she looks at the empty table and says something about the news she says something else but she's not talking we aren't proud of this, see my dad likes to wax his car he's proud of it and my mom says she sees a lot of him in my hands says, i touch the things i find like they didn't belong to people sleeping in the ground she says i touch photo albums the same way- you know, i never used to believe that history could repeat itself not until i could fast forward seventeen years and still wake up to smoke alarms how i would go into our kitchen to find it empty and the dinner smoldering & my mother in her bedroom looking through family photos like it's a just another summer day and the sirens are just the birds i don't ask, i never say a word in this moment i am an archeologist afraid to dig up the past cause history repeats itself- you see my brother is dead and my father is gone they have been for some years now and my mother sometimes forgets and sets their place at the table like they're still here and in the confusion ends up ankle deep in pictures of how it used to be she let's dinner burn and douses it in red pepper hoping i won't know the difference

74

In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set orbit nearly closed, the radio announcer gleefully chirruping, the twittering fool, "only ** graves to X off till spring" the weight of the prior the wait of the more no matter how little yet to come too much insufferable having suffered multiple life sentences you snit **** u don't know better, ha, they don't even run concurrently there are no sunsets in the girding grays of harsher enough and words that fail me, are the winners in the winter of the **** tests and hunts, I have successfully failed of course I'm wrong you petulant hobgoblin wringing nyet from me you'll get no concession, **** science, there are no sunsets in the winter and the sunrises, short unsweetened, light-less, less of less, frigid glaring revealers of dead trees and deader men maybe in the Rockies, perhaps the Alps, wonderlands photoshopped, pretty lies on the Internet BS posted where I live, wear the wear the weary neath the sweat stink of layers of unbundled choking hands, winter's damage assessed and assessment is never overdue, payable in immediacy heating bills I can't pay, a job that said no more of you, unpretty please, a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself right freaking black magic quick, trust me I have certified verified, me and Nixon, X's on the kitchen calendar, there is daylight, there is mighty night, almighty in long and colorless and nothing in between, but the smog stained slush of smothered life but definitely no sunrises and no sunsets watched all day from the imprisoning kitchen window which doubles as a **** you mirror there are no, not any, you know what, cannot even say them, the pipe dreams of better yet, pipes that have beaten down me and my disassociated senses, signed sealed and now delivered, from the formerly known as The Summer Man

0

Mar 14, 2015

Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC

dead-rose-one

In the Prison of Winter, No Rise, No Set

In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set orbit nearly closed, the radio announcer gleefully chirruping, the twittering fool, "only ** graves to X off till spring" the weight of the prior the wait of the more no matter how little yet to come too much insufferable having suffered multiple life sentences you snit **** u don't know better, ha, they don't even run concurrently there are no sunsets in the girding grays of harsher enough and words that fail me, are the winners in the winter of the **** tests and hunts, I have successfully failed of course I'm wrong you petulant hobgoblin wringing nyet from me you'll get no concession, **** science, there are no sunsets in the winter and the sunrises, short unsweetened, light-less, less of less, frigid glaring revealers of dead trees and deader men maybe in the Rockies, perhaps the Alps, wonderlands photoshopped, pretty lies on the Internet BS posted where I live, wear the wear the weary neath the sweat stink of layers of unbundled choking hands, winter's damage assessed and assessment is never overdue, payable in immediacy heating bills I can't pay, a job that said no more of you, unpretty please, a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself right freaking black magic quick, trust me I have certified verified, me and Nixon, X's on the kitchen calendar, there is daylight, there is mighty night, almighty in long and colorless and nothing in between, but the smog stained slush of smothered life but definitely no sunrises and no sunsets watched all day from the imprisoning kitchen window which doubles as a **** you mirror there are no, not any, you know what, cannot even say them, the pipe dreams of better yet, pipes that have beaten down me and my disassociated senses, signed sealed and now delivered, from the formerly known as The Summer Man

78

They say that over time, it dissipates - it will drain from you, evaporate like smoke. It will descend upon you, destroy you; but will soon release you, and fade. But with time it instead grows stronger, demanding to be felt. It knocks on the doors of my soul, its urgency to be let inside unrelenting and ruthless. Like an unpredictable storm, it lands and ravages, leaving just fragments of a heart already rebuilt. What is gone is the will; the resiliency dulled, the courage spent. It's a deep-rooted **** an unrivaled opponent; It's a malevolent fire that refuses to be smothered. The Hurt: a wound that permeates, and remains.

0

May 23, 2014

May 23, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC

victoria-queen

Hurt

They say that over time, it dissipates - it will drain from you, evaporate like smoke. It will descend upon you, destroy you; but will soon release you, and fade. But with time it instead grows stronger, demanding to be felt. It knocks on the doors of my soul, its urgency to be let inside unrelenting and ruthless. Like an unpredictable storm, it lands and ravages, leaving just fragments of a heart already rebuilt. What is gone is the will; the resiliency dulled, the courage spent. It's a deep-rooted **** an unrivaled opponent; It's a malevolent fire that refuses to be smothered. The Hurt: a wound that permeates, and remains.

16

This salt in the saltcellar I once saw in the salt mines. I know you won't believe me, but it sings, salt sings, the skin of the salt mines sings with a mouth smothered by the earth. I shivered in those solitudes when I heard the voice of the salt in the desert. Near Antofagasta the nitrous pampa resounds: a broken voice, a mournful song. In its caves the salt moans, mountain of buried light, translucent cathedral, crystal of the sea, oblivion of the waves. And then on every table in the world, salt, we see your piquant powder sprinkling vital light upon our food. Preserver of the ancient holds of ships, discoverer on the high seas, earliest sailor of the unknown, shifting byways of the foam. Dust of the sea, in you the tongue receives a kiss from ocean night: taste imparts to every seasoned dish your ocean essence; the smallest, miniature wave from the saltcellar reveals to us more than domestic whiteness; in it, we taste infinitude.

0

12.3k

Pablo Neruda

Ode To Salt

This salt in the saltcellar I once saw in the salt mines. I know you won't believe me, but it sings, salt sings, the skin of the salt mines sings with a mouth smothered by the earth. I shivered in those solitudes when I heard the voice of the salt in the desert. Near Antofagasta the nitrous pampa resounds: a broken voice, a mournful song. In its caves the salt moans, mountain of buried light, translucent cathedral, crystal of the sea, oblivion of the waves. And then on every table in the world, salt, we see your piquant powder sprinkling vital light upon our food. Preserver of the ancient holds of ships, discoverer on the high seas, earliest sailor of the unknown, shifting byways of the foam. Dust of the sea, in you the tongue receives a kiss from ocean night: taste imparts to every seasoned dish your ocean essence; the smallest, miniature wave from the saltcellar reveals to us more than domestic whiteness; in it, we taste infinitude.

61

have you been to the honey bunny buffet its on ***** hot ***** street and lick it up all day you can start with a kiss theres buttery ***** don't you dare miss her fallopian tubes she comes with a milk shake and sweet ***** treat her **** delicious you'll love her feet there are deserts different flavors for sure and pudding viscous you'll *** for some more if you like women shes yummy yum yummy be you boy or girl shes feels great in your tummy i love to go their its all you can eat stuff your self good gawd shes so sweet do you like **** its pink and its red its good with black bean sauce you can have it in bed or **** warm and gooey with ******** lips sopping wet deliciousness its so hot when she strips theres big bowls of ***** smothered in cream if you like ***** your gona scream i want to eat their every **** day but my wife wont let me so home i must stay* :(

0

Jun 12, 2017

Jun 12, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC

zebrablack

THE HONEY BUNNY BUFFET....Manga

have you been to the honey bunny buffet its on ***** hot ***** street and lick it up all day you can start with a kiss theres buttery ***** don't you dare miss her fallopian tubes she comes with a milk shake and sweet ***** treat her **** delicious you'll love her feet there are deserts different flavors for sure and pudding viscous you'll *** for some more if you like women shes yummy yum yummy be you boy or girl shes feels great in your tummy i love to go their its all you can eat stuff your self good gawd shes so sweet do you like **** its pink and its red its good with black bean sauce you can have it in bed or **** warm and gooey with ******** lips sopping wet deliciousness its so hot when she strips theres big bowls of ***** smothered in cream if you like ***** your gona scream i want to eat their every **** day but my wife wont let me so home i must stay* :(

40

Summer scents and summer heat Teenagers' laughter and water flying Dripping heads and shoeless feet Trees wear flowers and the sun is shining To him the day's grey and there's too much noise Smothered in his black shirt he's ignored by other boys Saved by the bell, he joins the row some teacher leads While a group of pupils talks, two girls argue and one reads At his usual seat he takes his usual things Acting like he's writing while he's finishing some drawings Yet his mind slips away to something near Someone's stare makes his concentration disappear Frustrated his eyes find her silent stare When the teacher turns his back, she leaves her desk in one, two, three Unbalanced he acts like he doesn't care He could just pretend like he didn't see Next to him she takes place The seat astonished by the company Her hands slowly reach his face And before he knows his vision gets blurry Still wondering what's going on, the poor boy has no clue Until she whispers- with his glasses on: Now I see the world like you. Y.

0

May 31, 2013

May 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC

cherry-cupcake

The Classmate

Summer scents and summer heat Teenagers' laughter and water flying Dripping heads and shoeless feet Trees wear flowers and the sun is shining To him the day's grey and there's too much noise Smothered in his black shirt he's ignored by other boys Saved by the bell, he joins the row some teacher leads While a group of pupils talks, two girls argue and one reads At his usual seat he takes his usual things Acting like he's writing while he's finishing some drawings Yet his mind slips away to something near Someone's stare makes his concentration disappear Frustrated his eyes find her silent stare When the teacher turns his back, she leaves her desk in one, two, three Unbalanced he acts like he doesn't care He could just pretend like he didn't see Next to him she takes place The seat astonished by the company Her hands slowly reach his face And before he knows his vision gets blurry Still wondering what's going on, the poor boy has no clue Until she whispers- with his glasses on: Now I see the world like you. Y.

24

black and blue... or a million shades of grey.. life trapped in a kaliedoscope.. prisoner of a psychedelic realm. Caustic pain covered with plastic smiles; tears are the treasures of scintillating eyes; song of the soul, smothered' by musings of my mind. (04/11/2013)

0

Apr 25, 2014

Apr 25, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC

ananya-mahapatra

Psychedelic

black and blue... or a million shades of grey.. life trapped in a kaliedoscope.. prisoner of a psychedelic realm. Caustic pain covered with plastic smiles; tears are the treasures of scintillating eyes; song of the soul, smothered' by musings of my mind. (04/11/2013)

9

There, in God’s country, the benign ruler Had promptly burst out of the earth’s bowels. A sea of coconuts smothered, sultrily, The most unwilling moss-painted houses The banyan raised its feet high enough For hundreds of creepy monsoon-creatures. The journey began in silver slanting rain Waiting for streaks of pure white sunshine To crawl through upright areca nut barks. As the telephone wires went up and down A floating bird quickly froze in the sky. First the coconut fronds ran to the hills Then the chilly plants , go red in the face Inside, they of the uncertain *** beat the wind Out of their joined palms in forced cadence. The floor-mopping boy under our large feet Looked with money-wetness in his brown eyes. The train went spluttering for lack of puff While gravel stones hit its forbidden parts.

0

Nov 7, 2010

Nov 7, 2010 at 10:36 PM UTC

jagannath-rao-adukuri

Train journey through Kerala

There, in God’s country, the benign ruler Had promptly burst out of the earth’s bowels. A sea of coconuts smothered, sultrily, The most unwilling moss-painted houses The banyan raised its feet high enough For hundreds of creepy monsoon-creatures. The journey began in silver slanting rain Waiting for streaks of pure white sunshine To crawl through upright areca nut barks. As the telephone wires went up and down A floating bird quickly froze in the sky. First the coconut fronds ran to the hills Then the chilly plants , go red in the face Inside, they of the uncertain *** beat the wind Out of their joined palms in forced cadence. The floor-mopping boy under our large feet Looked with money-wetness in his brown eyes. The train went spluttering for lack of puff While gravel stones hit its forbidden parts.

19

The brush is still in the garage on the cold, cement floor beside the empty tin of paint, its sides eternally dripping with a dried, buttercup hue. The walls which we smothered with color are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints after a day in the mud. A mess to us, the results of battles, safaris, and space travels to them. I could paint over the marks, start over fresh and show off to friends. But I think I’ll let it be. No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting, these four walls have still brightened many days. There has been roaring laughter, divided by a few screaming matches that have made the dog whimper. This room has seen much of our lives, and life cannot be painted over so easily. So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.

0

Jul 16, 2014

Jul 16, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC

sarah-coulston

Buttercup Yellow

The brush is still in the garage on the cold, cement floor beside the empty tin of paint, its sides eternally dripping with a dried, buttercup hue. The walls which we smothered with color are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints after a day in the mud. A mess to us, the results of battles, safaris, and space travels to them. I could paint over the marks, start over fresh and show off to friends. But I think I’ll let it be. No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting, these four walls have still brightened many days. There has been roaring laughter, divided by a few screaming matches that have made the dog whimper. This room has seen much of our lives, and life cannot be painted over so easily. So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.

21

I leapt and dove into the depths of indigo Night spilled carelessly onto my sky Darkness smothered with tides of indigo I almost drowned and whimpered a cry Grappled with the vagueness of indigo Out of the blue, I'd emerge with a heavy sigh

0

Mar 28, 2015

Mar 28, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC

ryn

Spectrum Indigo

I leapt and dove into the depths of indigo Night spilled carelessly onto my sky Darkness smothered with tides of indigo I almost drowned and whimpered a cry Grappled with the vagueness of indigo Out of the blue, I'd emerge with a heavy sigh

6

I must be made out of stone, A stone is a good thing to be, I have weathered wounds , Changed a bit on the outside, The core remains the same . A stone is a good thing to be , Nothing changes inside, A landslide or an avalanche, It’s just an adventurous ride, An experience that shaped me. Nothing changes inside, Time has layered me solid, A little unraveling by nature, Is time again working on me, Showing the grit that makes me. Time has layered me solid, Bruises sharpened my edges, Water smothered me smooth, I could lay alone for ages, Or I could flow and dissolve .

0

Sep 23, 2018

Sep 23, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC

Blissfulnobody

A stone is a good thing to be

I must be made out of stone, A stone is a good thing to be, I have weathered wounds , Changed a bit on the outside, The core remains the same . A stone is a good thing to be , Nothing changes inside, A landslide or an avalanche, It’s just an adventurous ride, An experience that shaped me. Nothing changes inside, Time has layered me solid, A little unraveling by nature, Is time again working on me, Showing the grit that makes me. Time has layered me solid, Bruises sharpened my edges, Water smothered me smooth, I could lay alone for ages, Or I could flow and dissolve .

20

Why do you love the one you do? Arrogant as he lives Intriguing minds have not a clue. He cheats, he lies and receives your endless forgives Security he cannot propose Financially, spiritually, emotional or otherwise. Love unfaithfully he bestows Disguised as Christian he justifies. Smothered in the cocoon of his limited sphere, Hinders flight for the beautiful butterfly, Egotistically the coward oozes insincere. Sadly pondering, inquiring minds ask Why?

0

Oct 22, 2015

Oct 22, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC

Cne

Why

Why do you love the one you do? Arrogant as he lives Intriguing minds have not a clue. He cheats, he lies and receives your endless forgives Security he cannot propose Financially, spiritually, emotional or otherwise. Love unfaithfully he bestows Disguised as Christian he justifies. Smothered in the cocoon of his limited sphere, Hinders flight for the beautiful butterfly, Egotistically the coward oozes insincere. Sadly pondering, inquiring minds ask Why?

12

I went to the Cordon Bleu And my name is Pierre I work in the kitchen I’m a French chef extraordinaire With fine French food My name is synonymous But I am an addict I attend McDonalds Anonymous When I make a quiche I just want to hug it But I keep getting cravings For a Chicken McNugget Fast food or French food I am conflicted Fast food or French food Yes I am addicted The 12-step program Keeps me on track I have to fight my desire To binge on Big Mac I pretend I’m a food snob My life’s full of lies When I buy burgers I must wear a disguise I should come out of the closet Admit my transgressions Then they would accept me For my fast food obsessions Maybe the other chefs Would heap me with praise If I smothered my Big Macs With Sauce Hollandaise

0

Aug 10, 2014

Aug 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC

alank

French Chef

I went to the Cordon Bleu And my name is Pierre I work in the kitchen I’m a French chef extraordinaire With fine French food My name is synonymous But I am an addict I attend McDonalds Anonymous When I make a quiche I just want to hug it But I keep getting cravings For a Chicken McNugget Fast food or French food I am conflicted Fast food or French food Yes I am addicted The 12-step program Keeps me on track I have to fight my desire To binge on Big Mac I pretend I’m a food snob My life’s full of lies When I buy burgers I must wear a disguise I should come out of the closet Admit my transgressions Then they would accept me For my fast food obsessions Maybe the other chefs Would heap me with praise If I smothered my Big Macs With Sauce Hollandaise

32

Is it acceptable to **** anyone and everyone you want, Be mysteriously exposed in your photographs, Act carelessly with people and friends drunk and drugged and dicked out of your mind, Forget the hurtful and blissful past for a reputation, Exist in a way the girl you were never thought you could be the girl you are, Because you’re in your 20s? You remind me of the characters Greta Gerwig plays in some of her films, But not Gerwig herself, Although you do look an awful like her Hispanic version if there was one; I guess that’s you. I bet when I was placing the edge of the razorblade against my wrist, You were getting penetrated and plowed by a **** between the legs. Your innocence was smothered by your lust and Our history got erased by your fears and flaws. I just wanted you, But then again, everyone already had you, And it was not my fault; It was your choice.

0

Oct 27, 2014

Oct 27, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC

blinkforman23

****

Is it acceptable to **** anyone and everyone you want, Be mysteriously exposed in your photographs, Act carelessly with people and friends drunk and drugged and dicked out of your mind, Forget the hurtful and blissful past for a reputation, Exist in a way the girl you were never thought you could be the girl you are, Because you’re in your 20s? You remind me of the characters Greta Gerwig plays in some of her films, But not Gerwig herself, Although you do look an awful like her Hispanic version if there was one; I guess that’s you. I bet when I was placing the edge of the razorblade against my wrist, You were getting penetrated and plowed by a **** between the legs. Your innocence was smothered by your lust and Our history got erased by your fears and flaws. I just wanted you, But then again, everyone already had you, And it was not my fault; It was your choice.

18

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

79

today's my birthday, but i don't want presents today's my birthday, but i don't want wishes today's my birthday, but i don't want to be older today's my birthday, but i don't want a party today's my birthday, but i already have everything i want they told me that my mom loved birthdays they told me she'd stay up all night baking cakes and cookies and pies they told me she planned parties months in advance they told me she loved to sing happy birthday and that she had perfect pitch too they told me she made me her famous almond dream cake for my first birthday smothered in coconut frosting with one little palm tree precariously placed on top they told me that she learned to knit just for me to make me a soft blanket adorned with the words, my little angel, cara today's my birthday, but i don't want it to be today's my birthday, but i don't want to remember my mother

0

Nov 22, 2015

Nov 22, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC

carachristie

Today's My Birthday

today's my birthday, but i don't want presents today's my birthday, but i don't want wishes today's my birthday, but i don't want to be older today's my birthday, but i don't want a party today's my birthday, but i already have everything i want they told me that my mom loved birthdays they told me she'd stay up all night baking cakes and cookies and pies they told me she planned parties months in advance they told me she loved to sing happy birthday and that she had perfect pitch too they told me she made me her famous almond dream cake for my first birthday smothered in coconut frosting with one little palm tree precariously placed on top they told me that she learned to knit just for me to make me a soft blanket adorned with the words, my little angel, cara today's my birthday, but i don't want it to be today's my birthday, but i don't want to remember my mother

32

I just stood transfixed, letting her eyes light the smothered wick in me that needed the oil of love with anxious stutter I asked, "Is your name Grace?" "It really is, you are right there, but pardon me I am Grace Fallen" I took it as a joke and smiled, "Dear fallen flower, your grace resurrects my crucified spirit" I have seen them all, blooms, perfect, fragrant, the ones that catapult one to momentary bliss with a wink, a word that touches somewhere tender or share love, fresh like butter, that seems gushing from the depth that not even expect any kind of reciprocation, blowing like fragrant breeze, caressing drooping trees. Women with such luminance ,bless their ilk whom one only could think as incarnates came down to lift this miserable world up from the quagmire, the ***** pit it has fallen because of the absence of feminine grace in abundance

0

Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC

k-balachandran

Feminine Grace

I just stood transfixed, letting her eyes light the smothered wick in me that needed the oil of love with anxious stutter I asked, "Is your name Grace?" "It really is, you are right there, but pardon me I am Grace Fallen" I took it as a joke and smiled, "Dear fallen flower, your grace resurrects my crucified spirit" I have seen them all, blooms, perfect, fragrant, the ones that catapult one to momentary bliss with a wink, a word that touches somewhere tender or share love, fresh like butter, that seems gushing from the depth that not even expect any kind of reciprocation, blowing like fragrant breeze, caressing drooping trees. Women with such luminance ,bless their ilk whom one only could think as incarnates came down to lift this miserable world up from the quagmire, the ***** pit it has fallen because of the absence of feminine grace in abundance

17

i think how we need to be loved as adults stems from our childhood (or lack thereof). if you were abandoned, you need to be smothered, to know every second that you're adored. but as a child you were always alone, so the very love you crave makes you feel suffocated and crawling white knuckled to get out. and so this war rages inside of us, until we have exhausted ourselves & perhaps those who were brave enough to extend their hands. ©raine cooper

0

Oct 24, 2015

Oct 24, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC

rainecooper

love

i think how we need to be loved as adults stems from our childhood (or lack thereof). if you were abandoned, you need to be smothered, to know every second that you're adored. but as a child you were always alone, so the very love you crave makes you feel suffocated and crawling white knuckled to get out. and so this war rages inside of us, until we have exhausted ourselves & perhaps those who were brave enough to extend their hands. ©raine cooper

4

When is it the right time To open the closet door To look in on a journey paused To risk the truth and find Boxes taped up with angry haste Adventures stifled within four walls When is the right time To sit with the papers, the moments, the times To make the decisions To be brave in the face of pain and find Cherished moments stuffed haphazardly away Flashes of beauty smothered by a storm When is the right time To laugh, to cry, to hate, to mourn To acknowledge the truth To risk the unpredictable path that leads to A heart ready, open for healing And a closet - with room for someone else

0

Aug 9, 2017

Aug 9, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC

kim-lang

Cleaning Out the Closet

When is it the right time To open the closet door To look in on a journey paused To risk the truth and find Boxes taped up with angry haste Adventures stifled within four walls When is the right time To sit with the papers, the moments, the times To make the decisions To be brave in the face of pain and find Cherished moments stuffed haphazardly away Flashes of beauty smothered by a storm When is the right time To laugh, to cry, to hate, to mourn To acknowledge the truth To risk the unpredictable path that leads to A heart ready, open for healing And a closet - with room for someone else

18

There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and not one of them describes how I feel about you, about us. I used to say you were my strawberry jam, my little preserve that I would lay and spread on the table each morning, and I would lick my lips and say 'my God isn't she magnificent'. I was your hero, your savior, your Christ that you had at Sundays Eucharist, and thank God you did. You dissolved in my mouth like that little piece of bread called a body but you tasted of everything instead of nothing, and **** me for thinking of you instead of God, thinking of you as my altar as I said 'hail Mary' and I worshiped you like a school girl with an orange full of candles in her hand, and for that God will **** me. He will **** me to hell but I don't care as the Universe lives under your tongue and everything I had ever dreamed of was right there in the right hand corner of your mouth. You were my Wendy, darling. You stuck a thimble on my heart and said now you can never hurt me. But you did. We did. And the never of Neverland drifted away like a ship sinking into the sky, enveloped by darkness, smothered by a torrential rain of tears that washed away your fears that we were perfect, as there's no such thing as perfect when you can see your heart in the mirror with a target fixed to its center, There are no words to describe how I feel about us. I still lift up my shirt and see your name inscribed on my chest, I still wake up and transcribe the words you wrote on my breast. I still touch myself up and think of you bribing me to undress. I still think about us. If I could re-write my world to involve you in it I would. I would leave a piece of the jigsaw for you to carry around in your pocket so you knew you always fit in the world some where. I would make the sun rise each day through your window so you knew that life was worth living, that life was worth living when you were so what I am saying is I am forgiving. I am forgiving those days you swore at my reflection, and that day I slept on the sofa till three in the morning chain smoking till I was choking, remember? You said 'what are you doing' and I said I was in a smoke straight jacket and I was dying. You went back up to bed and I started crying. I am forgiving myself of those days I lay in bed just sighing. I am forgiving us for not trying. But most of all, most of all, I am forgiving us for lying. There are not enough words in the English language that can say I'm sorry like I am. Or that I want you to move on. But I don't want you to move on. Or that I want you happy. Because I want you happy. I want you happy.

0

Oct 27, 2013

Oct 27, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC

kate-morgan

English language (spoken poetry)

There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and not one of them describes how I feel about you, about us. I used to say you were my strawberry jam, my little preserve that I would lay and spread on the table each morning, and I would lick my lips and say 'my God isn't she magnificent'. I was your hero, your savior, your Christ that you had at Sundays Eucharist, and thank God you did. You dissolved in my mouth like that little piece of bread called a body but you tasted of everything instead of nothing, and **** me for thinking of you instead of God, thinking of you as my altar as I said 'hail Mary' and I worshiped you like a school girl with an orange full of candles in her hand, and for that God will **** me. He will **** me to hell but I don't care as the Universe lives under your tongue and everything I had ever dreamed of was right there in the right hand corner of your mouth. You were my Wendy, darling. You stuck a thimble on my heart and said now you can never hurt me. But you did. We did. And the never of Neverland drifted away like a ship sinking into the sky, enveloped by darkness, smothered by a torrential rain of tears that washed away your fears that we were perfect, as there's no such thing as perfect when you can see your heart in the mirror with a target fixed to its center, There are no words to describe how I feel about us. I still lift up my shirt and see your name inscribed on my chest, I still wake up and transcribe the words you wrote on my breast. I still touch myself up and think of you bribing me to undress. I still think about us. If I could re-write my world to involve you in it I would. I would leave a piece of the jigsaw for you to carry around in your pocket so you knew you always fit in the world some where. I would make the sun rise each day through your window so you knew that life was worth living, that life was worth living when you were so what I am saying is I am forgiving. I am forgiving those days you swore at my reflection, and that day I slept on the sofa till three in the morning chain smoking till I was choking, remember? You said 'what are you doing' and I said I was in a smoke straight jacket and I was dying. You went back up to bed and I started crying. I am forgiving myself of those days I lay in bed just sighing. I am forgiving us for not trying. But most of all, most of all, I am forgiving us for lying. There are not enough words in the English language that can say I'm sorry like I am. Or that I want you to move on. But I don't want you to move on. Or that I want you happy. Because I want you happy. I want you happy.

11

Purple It was your favourite colour You made me wear it, you made me When you was painting Deep colours like Purple were your pallet Your canvas was pale white clean and pure Innocent almost but your aggressive ruined it Your paintbrush you held it with power, pride dominance with brutal force i was your canvas and your brush your fist you smothered me now i am your favourite colour purple.

0

Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC

christinesandford

Purple

Purple It was your favourite colour You made me wear it, you made me When you was painting Deep colours like Purple were your pallet Your canvas was pale white clean and pure Innocent almost but your aggressive ruined it Your paintbrush you held it with power, pride dominance with brutal force i was your canvas and your brush your fist you smothered me now i am your favourite colour purple.

21