Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
today love looks like
a full body scrub.
lips
and face included.
all traces of anything not alive being removed.
all traces of anything not meant to be here gone.
feeling softer,
more free,
but no closer to ridding this body of you.
these lips
of you,
these legs
of you.
I’d clean this heart of you
if there were something made for messes there.
alexis Oct 2018
i was born of rough cloth.
it cradled me from youth
it kept me scarcely warm,
and amply humble.

but i grew a longing for silk and silver—
a softer touch,
a glimmer around my neck.

my head rests against your chest—
your cashmere skin greets my weary cheek
i hear that gem beating in your jewelry box
a scarlet ruby,
plated in the pure gold of your love.

i run my fingers through your amber satin ribbons.
you laugh a music box tune and i long to dance.

your smile shines in pure ivory,
and your eyes twinkle with a clarity
the finest of diamonds envy.

i look at you,
rich with love
and i remember
my wealth.
Anna Jul 2017
a tough nut to crack
but to get the softer centre,
you must break him apart.
020617
PoserPersona Jul 2018
Your hair stills heart's rhythmic meter
  For this I wish forever
Strands spun with goddess gossamer;
  softer than touch of mother

Your eyes dazzle with no glitter
  For this I stare o're yonder
Locking jewels with coins of others;
  Leaves throbbing chests emptier

Your form flows as gentle rivers
  For this I grudge past swimmers
Glory bequeathed to the winner;
  drown will the losing suitors

Your voice humbles angel choirs
  For this I listen eager
Songs molding seraphs from satyrs;
  in harmony with nature

Your being stirs wildfire
  For this I bear the pleasure
Ethereal flames dance together;
  fueled by spiritual tethers

You are my love light of summer
  For this I waded winter
Glowing 'bove, spring was made greener;
  blooming nascent desire
Ozioma Ogbaji Apr 2015
In the morning, old becomes new
Birds sing as black slowly turns blue
In the morning, my fears are taken
My faith is stronger, I am not shaken

My fears are taken by morning's rebirth
Fresh as the dew clinging to my feet
In the morning, there is a new me to meet
Whom the blinding night has deemed fit to birth

In the morning, my flaws are still the same
Like the yellow sun, everyday like flame
In the morning, I remember yesterday's mistakes
And I know better what is at stake

In the morning, I let go of the night
I let go of the dark, I embrace the light
In the morning, my eyes are brighter
My dance is better, my laugh is lighter

My smile is warmer, my kiss is softer
My hug is tighter, my speech has no stutter
In the morning, I am all I want to be
Awake, refreshed, hopeful, free
Paul Hansford Apr 2016
I have looked at sunsets as long as they lasted
the reds and the golds and the pinks of them
the play of light on the edges of clouds
the changing shadows over the land.
I have watched the sea steadily rolling in wave after wave
breaking against the rocks with the energy of distant storms
or gently lapping at softer shores.
I have gazed up at the brilliance
of a black night of stars million upon million
no moon to dim their richness.
I have seen the hidden blues and greens in a slow river of ice.
I have known forests and mountains.

I have known you also and you no less
are part of the universe.  I can admire
the changing sky in the colour of your eyes
the moving sea in the curve of your neck
the wonder of an opening rosebud
in the crook of your elbow.
There is an audio recording of myself reading this poem on Youtube.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=detNC95rvO0
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
The first main character did not last over the final solo.
the self-assured, quick-witted, skilled and passionate
The earliest appearances were the famous story
the secret organization belongs to an old school
An early American market liked the rugged agent
the stereotypical English gentleman designed the first season
The hidden steel plate concealed in the Bowler hat
An old world sophistication came to the traditional Englishman
the post production scenes were filmed in the studio
The awkward verbal shorthand gave rise to the character's name.
A fourth transmission was to the dead chessboard;
the lighter comic touch had a harder tone,
the serious espionage dramas disappeared
the fantasy elements known as The killer robots
an elaborate leather uniform becomes her signature outfit
a softer new wardrobe was bought
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Avengers_(TV_series)
harlee kae Jul 2014
today is the twelth
and i wonder if
that had any effect on you at all.
or if you even looked at calendar.
because you're all i've thought about.
at my cousin's wedding
i had to go in the restroom
to hide away my tears.
and i got a stuffed animal.
her name is sage.
but murphy is much softer.
and i miss him
almost as much as i miss you.
onlylovepoetry Aug 2018
[tongue taking taken prayer]

come worship in my temple.
your tongue gowned by silence,
thy teasing vibrations disperse my slack, exchanging
it for a rigidity that is even softer, looser,
an improvement possibility impossible incomprehensible

the noises of freedom from anonymity is thy silenced tongue
unleashed, teasing, speaking tongues unrelenting and unremitting  and unforgotten for they never were
learned or incapable of being self-taught

my pleasure sprouts mushrooms in my loamy foam,
thy rainfall nourishment, seed plant growing life morning borne,
thy tricked up sonnets played within my hearts harp,
tunes never known but come from the land of plenty,
my new promised land

teach me where the apostrophe goes, the comma and
why the question mark is curved and dotted like my body,
why we need punctuation to separate the first from the next

trees weep as if every dry rain petal is instantly imbibed,
wanting more for my swollen by thy ministrations,
I cry out
my ice storm, my thunder, embalm me within the
electric spreading in my veins shocking steady constant

thy name thy name I beg to give thee a name
to understand what has befallen me


you can call me by my favorite of
all my seventy two,^
your first baby squeals and
even now in human manufactured agreed upon symbols, (words),
every utterance a prayer heard and answered

my name is a heated and unbroken
hallelujah,
I am thy god, and you, darling you,
my beloved
^https://www.chabad.org/kabbalah/article_cdo/aid/1388270/jewish/72-Names-of-G-d.htm
Em Glass Apr 2013
it wasn't snowing yet, but they'd told us it would.
probably I said something infantile, about how
I could smell it, the frostiness of snowflakes in the
air, because you smiled that knowing smile of yours,
like you were an adult and i was a child and you
didn't have the heart to take my innocence away.

that look always made my heart smile, sadly, and
it also drove me up a wall, partly because it made
me want to hug you close and pity you the
burden of assumed moral superiority, and whisper
that you, too were a child. but mostly because you
were right— I clung to my naiveté while you, you
had already had the good sense to push it away.
it followed you around with sad puppy eyes, but
you knew it and you kept it at arm's length.
you brave, brave soul.

when it did start to snow I wasn't surprised. you
were. you didn't say anything. we were in
a deserted school hallway, listening, removed
from the other kids' cries. we were
delighted too, but the others wanted to run home
early, and we knew the definition
of home better than they. and I can speak only for
myself but it seemed we both wanted only to stay
forever side by side, tucked away in our corner,
me reveling in the softness of love and friendship
and winter, you trying to be there with me but having
trouble leaving your mind, where that sad-eyed
puppy snapped at your heels. it whimpered
but you held your own.

and slowly, we built up moments like this one.
we wallowed in each other and in the coziness
of cloudy days. we read good poetry and
heard good music and took photographs as we
discussed life from our  softer world.
there were moments of such pure white happiness
that they came full circle to being sad,
simply because I knew I would never be that
happy again, and I was not wrong, and I didn't
want to be. and we had
sad moments, too, never ever think I am not
happy to be sad with you.

and slowly, too, your innocence knew its
defeat, and sat obediently at your feet,
and we shared things.
but I was a child, and a weak one at that, and
God knew I was not as strong as you so she
gave me no great suffering to speak of, to
share with you. no way to reciprocate the
vulnerability you gave, and that in
itself was suffering for me.

I regret that I was not good at saying things.
that while
you had to be your own adult and push childhood
away, I clung hopelessly to mine as
I discovered me and watched it slip
from my small hands.

among the plethora of reasons I can give for
bitterly hating sunny days is the
way the sun slanted through the window and lit
up your eyes and swilled particles around
your face like fairy dust on the day you reached
out and pulled my lanyard over your own neck.
look, you said, content. almost proud.
I'm wearing a bit of you around my
neck,
and you wove it through your
sunlit fingers, eyes bright. you tugged on it,
lightly. that's what love does, it strangles
you. and we all want it.


and I gasped at the way that word sounded,
so harsh in such beautiful sunlight on such
a soft face. but I don't want to strangle
you
. I said that. thoughtlessly,
instinctively. I regret it every day. in that regard,
you gave me a strength, but it's no german shepherd—
you are so **** strong.

when your ache tugged and tugged at you,
tore you from reality, or brought you closer to it,
it slipped its finger into that lanyard knot. loosened it.
I could have reached out right then, as you had when you
pulled the sun-soaked string over your head, and
tightened it. tightened us. been a friend.

I didn't tug the knot. if you run.
when you run,
I know that two grown dogs
will follow after you, blocked
from the sun by your receding shadow.
bythesea Dec 2017
you were built to part the ocean

with your golden skin
you stopped walls from crumbling
and there, under this ancient bridge
you understood me.

i was drawn slowly through your tides
but i wanted to fold into your ocean,
and you came back to me:

on a shimmer moon
as a black hopeful rose,
in dreams.

you were the softer one.
and i only wanted to
melt into your ocean.

you came back to me in my dreams

and with your smile
like the sea and the canal
      my whole body opened
Outside Words Oct 2018
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
My younger brother and I heard strange noises coming from the beach again…
We looked up at the ceiling and then the window…
As the voices from outside, in a lively allegro…
Grew softer and louder in repeating crescendos…
We skittered out the door and stared in fascination…
For what we saw must have been our imagination…

The door closed with a creak as our feet hit the grass…
It was at that moment we got a look at the mass…
Of stubby foot, hunchback creatures from which the sounds had amassed…

There was about six of them chanting like a choir…
They danced and paraded around our burnt out fire…
As we looked on, we saw our fire raise…
It got brighter as they lifted their hands in waves…
As light betook the blue beach night…
A crowd of colorfully masked gremlins caught us in their sights!

Their feet slowed to a stop and they quieted down…
They stood still as the fire flickered off their weird wooden frowns…
One reached out his hand in a come-here motion…
They seemed to stand and wait with an encouraging notion…
As the fire crackled and the waves tumbled onto the beach…

All I can remember, is for the rest of that summer…
My younger brother and I served as the drummers…
For that quirky marching band of lake sprites…
With which our burnt out fire we’d reignite…
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
© Outside Words
ren Apr 2014
Her hips were poetry 
When she walked,
Leaving the room hushed
And breathless;
Gazing in awe

Her lips were poetry 
When she sang;
Clearer than the birds
And prettier than the stars
And bolder than the moon
And softer than the night 

Her eyes were poetry
When her brows crinkled
In delight
And her lids fluttered
In fatigue
And her irises sparkled
In passion

And the way she spoke
And the way she did
And the way she was,
It was all poetry to me.
For my best friend.
Umi Apr 2018
The wind blows on a restless night
No fright, sight or cloud creep around in the tranquility of darkness,
A drizzle, brought by a softer breeze from seemingly nowhere drives near, dispersing the light brought by the sweet waning gibbous moon
And so, a grand rainbow, yet dim has been cast across the dark sky, filling it with both hope and glamour and blessed optimistic tender,
Impulisive shooting stars, racing across the sky and illuminating it,
In great numbers, one would think someone let the stars rain down instead, as they shine, then shoot across the horizon, never to bee seen again, each wishing, leaving their bright trails behind as travelers,
Appearing like a cosmic chess board, the flare stars dance in a festival of pure energy in the light of a white nights eternal moon, beaming,
The legend of a first wish, travelers which bring infinite fortune, brought to those whom believe in a shooting stars power and might,
The legend of the second wish, simply infinite power brought in light
And the last wish is carried by the realisation of transience, right before the night has come to its end, a last traveler shoots across the sky, it is the wish of immortality, an eternal life which cannot vanish.
But, the last wish, is a greater curse than hell or death itself.

~ Umi
abby Apr 2017
In this moment all I can possibly wonder is the way I will remember you,
Will I remember the sweat on your bottom lip, like thumb tacks puncturing a map,
Puncturing the places I would like to visit;

Or will I remember the way your eyes look in sunlight,
Iridescent and blue like the sea the day after a storm.
Except you are not a reflection of something else.
You have not shriveled up and died,
Or reserected yourself from your most sinuous nightmare.

I always wanted to take you apart ; leave your fragments to sun dry.

That is the silver barrier that separates us,
I am wasted potential, a sick twisted mind, I will spit in your mouth and smile.
I have been thrown to the vultures,
And although I clawed my way out,
Something inside of me has died.
A candle has burned out;
And then there’s you.
And you light up the sky with sparks,
And set my whole world ablaze.

We are burning,
Burning down the cities and engulfing the towns,
Swamping the planet with embers.
We are a flood of inferno,
A glittering holocaust.

I have loved before, and that was much softer,
It’s different when you don’t know how bad it hurts. I could write a book about all the different places in my body I felt heartbreak.

I wonder if I will always carry this flame with me. I could keep my heart in my pocket, leave my memories in the photo frames and card board boxes.

Oh dear,
If only it was that easy.
Morgan sb Oct 2018
I could feel my heart beat not in my chest, but in my head and fingers

I've kissed before. I've loved before.

There's something to be said about femininity; the way that my body responds to long hair and full lips and soft skin and collarbones and draped clothes over soft bodies.

My ****** identity has always been fluid, has always been a question mark. But it remained dormant, building beneath the surface.

There was...something... missing...I didn't know that I was missing the soft touch of a femme lover.

I remember the anticipation building because this kiss was to be the culmination, the confirmation of the feelings that lay dormant for 23 years.

She gazed into my eyes, hazy with lust and smoke and the gentle songbird crooning of solange.

I waited for permission and when it was granted, I leaned in and... something happened.

I relinquished control of my body and allowed myself to melt into her.

Our breath was in sync, if I remember breathing at all

My mind which runs with anxious, irrational, frightening, horrid obsessive thoughts only thought of her lips.

Lips: Softer than anyone's I've ever kissed. The nape of her neck was softer than the softest parts of my skin. This kiss mist have only lasted minutes, but in the haze of being ****** and queer and accepting this moment as real and finally not a dream, it felt endless

I don't like to think back to this night, this kiss, their face, their lips. That chapter has ended and it was over as quickly as it began.

But I recall how we broke apart and I had to catch my breath because I don't think I remembered to exhale.

Fragmented memories piecing together when you asked to kiss me again, and how the second kiss was better than the first and how I felt you pulling closer to me.

Your hand was on my thigh and I wanted it between mine and I learned then that a hand was not an invitation, but that it was an offering and I accepted it gladly.

I was so afraid to touch you; fearful that I would be too rough and that you'd pull back.

Instead I felt soft enough and pretty enough and just enough for you in that moment. I didn't feel clumsy or too much or too passionate.

I felt the heat rising in my chest and between my thighs and I knew if I didn't stop that I wouldn't stop wanting this

I didn't know how badly I had wanted or needed this until it I was in your car. In a giggly haze of nerves and lust and the desire to be loved on a Saturday evening. In your car. Waiting for you to ask to kiss me.

Your lips were intoxicating, the only thing my body could feel was you touching me, wishing we were anywhere but that tiny car. Anticipating the next time we'd kiss and we wouldn't have to stop at hands above clothes and lips only touching lips.

The kiss was the ****** to my self love story. To understanding the complexities of my heart and that I don't desire a rough, toxic, masculine heart.

I want the soft lips and soft skin and to welcome the flood of beautiful, wonderful *** feelings.

And God, I will always remember that kiss.
This is about a kiss I had with someone who would be best described as a lover. The time spent with them meant a lot to me.
Next page