"tensions" poems
Oh how I hate
this time of year,
with the stupid songs
and holiday cheer...
Annoying bell ringers
outside the store,
and the tacky wreaths
hanging on the door.
Cardboard calendars
filled with waxy treats,
ice and snow making
death traps of streets.
Frazzled parents
spending more then they should
on entitled kids
who are far from good.
Fake smiles & wishes
in the "spirit" of it all,
the empty shelves-
the crowds at the mall.
The hour long line
to see Santa the phony
who falsely promises
an x-box or a pony.
Having to gather
with family who annoy,
gifting another cheap
Chinese-made toy.
Fire hazards
strung with tinsel and lights,
tensions leading
to fun Christmas fights!
Secret Santas-
holiday parties for work-
ugly sweaters
making you look like a ****
The stress of having
an enormous list
and a tiny budget
just makes me ******
No, nothing seems jolly
or merry or bright...
Oh how I can't wait
till post-Christmas night!
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
I am half-Chinese and a half Filipino-Spanish.
I have only learnt to speak Filipino my whole life.
The best advises I have received is that there is no right or wrong,
that labels does not always help.
That no matter what, I should just go
and "Live my life", or "Sing in Full Voice, Until Then".
Attentive to a fault to the work or person at hand.
Because of routine and living demands, sometimes I
only pay attention to what is available or given to me.
Like the quest for the Spices of the East, I could no longer live the same way when the time came. I had to learn preservation and other flavors.
In a Asian Food Show, someone shares
How some later generation Chinese had to study their own native language in secret between 1966 to 1998.
Stories of how their migrant or refugee heritage have made them scapegoats of many local tensions.
And varieties of words and ingredients also native to Chinese and later generations that lived offshore.
Many of us now in the thrash of our collective songs
towards healing and full living as humanity, continuing
refugees and wanderers in our own ways.
Where we see our indigenous-selves and our oppressor-selves,
is not as difficult as we are usually made to,
in a world of artificial
demands and surpluses.
One old song gently reminds me
in many languages singing,
as another bowl of handmade noodles
breaks open into countless random pieces:
We are only passing through earth.
Made to experience, and let go of our fears
and limitations.To gather our remains so that
it is inanimate buildings and objects that are used
by the living instead, and nothing is left behind.
To not leave a trace. To learn how to love.#
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 1:27 AM UTC
An artist,
I’m scared to be left to my thinking atoms and nuclear cells
Why solder my raining thoughts to reality
In my head I can’t trust these clockworks
Rusted gears precariously tricking forward
Tensions unbalance on a pinched nerve ending
Hesitate I retract to others knowing what I don’t know
That once I start I might fail
I don’t do what I want to
I don’t speak when I want to
When I so desperately need to
Before I explode
Violently, into a void
Void of emotionless urges
An artist like me if I so believe I am
Doubtfully attempts to act in the face of thunder
Only to cowardly hide in a cat’s whisker
Inner bricking delays outer progress
Progress I provocatively flaunt to the alive bodies
While knowing the fallacious congrats is unwarranted
I don’t believe in magical rainbow kitten surprise wishes
But I won’t also hide my love
With the internal flame dimming
I want to act the part by flipping over the stones
For the mysteries hidden away
To see them crawling out
My untapped desires
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Existential cruelty of a long abandoned Friday
Remembered once, twice
then forgotten by 8 pm.
The shots of Chiraq and memories of Hatshepsut linger effortlessly on his doorstep in the dark of sunlight,
but smiles in his lap disappear on the pavement beneath skyscrapers
before the dead of noon.
His mind travels to the curvy bodies of Monroe types.
A palm, a fist, a thumb
caress ******* and legs before he wakes
to find hair on his pillow and lips in his face
where only days before a yellow sky and bright green eyes waved and faded.
And all because interracial pride and prejudice leaked toils and tensions in the face of Basquiat
Where once African princes and white German queens
spent Tuesday afternoons charming their ways into each others' beds
and sighing at the disgust stamped on the faces of strangers.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
I feel at home in the liminal in the space inbetween,
between past, future, reality fantasy, this, that.
In the liminal, the past and future lap around me,
demanding waves that climb high and share their spray.
The salt water clings to my hair, stiffens it like straw
and I stay, ungrowing in the liminal.
I live between thresholds on the threshold
and sometimes the tension tugs and tears and rips
my fingernails, my hair my skin.
Thresholds are supposed to hurt, to push, to compel
but it’s where I rest and make my home.
The liminal does not rip me apart as it should.
It’s hollow in the liminal a void that digs my insides
out. It’s a cave in there walls of apathy and dread.
My mind grows in on itself and I live in it,
where it plays in the liminal.
It cannot survive beyond the threshold
so I stay in the house where the windows are
clear and the doors are unlocked. Nothing is
keeping me in but myself.
I feel at home in the liminal, where the tensions
hurt and erode but it’s safe here,
or safe enough in the space inbetween.
I fear the sea and the tides so I stay on the shore.
It hurts but not as much as it should.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
i admit to 'male' --
'female' strikes me low
curving
concupiscent hips (of Venus swaying so)
the one who places,
caught bathing in her morph
to mar
her goddess innocence (Peleus grasps her so)
her evergreen paradise-
apple spraying scruples,
while the sun
dries forgiveness **** (on Eve's fragrant *******
in other Edens
Lilith simply leaves him blind
to lust
for unknown Didos (craving **** or suicide)
the limping god
nets love and war, olympicly
to smith
a mortal death (from Vulcan jealousy)
foresight's fire-gift
leaps obedience
to lie
far falls the divine (in ******* he defied)
potent swan of sky,
what judgement?
for a girl
you laid in that white rush, (virginity unfurled)
immortal ****
fates sails of progeny,
raging
poet-birthing strife (for temple priestess' cries)
fated nation-death swoons,
shares beauty's scale,
and Aphrodite's foam (caresses history's thighs)
Trojan tensions mix
the modern mind to heights of doubt
of mythopoets' truth ( -yielding blindnesses)
lonely walk the earth
with guiding wisdom lacking
all the pawns of fate (forget love's darknesses)
sphinxine hunger asks
the soul of destiny
of hubris, tragic sight (and orgiastic nights)
of unknown woman
man struck down
sickly city safe
and burning, yearning (nymph and satyr sating Bacchic rites)
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
This poem is a toast to our love, to pure love.
Let peace, purity & contentment prevail
everywhere evenly dispelling hatred.
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Whether it's writing poems,
Whether it's riding horses,
Whether it's reading books,
Or it's roaming nooks...
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Whether it's blooming flowers,
Whether it's raining droplets,
Whether it's crooning lullabies,
Or it's draining tensions...
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
There's a hint of you,
In everything I do...!
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
no slavering kisses
like a dog on heat
no schoolboy fumble
wanting you to beat his meat.
no ***** in the dark
or a letch to grab your ****
no rancid breath,nor sweaty skin
to grasp you in his mits.
just you and your fingers
and your own ***** vices
pure ecstacy of loving yourself
with your battery op devices.
it is all in the touch
the rhythm of your wrist
the way your body squirms
giving a wriggle to your hips.
a gasp n moan
************ brings you pleasure
frustrated tensions fade away
as you fiddle at your leisure.
reaching your crescendo
a throb a pant a sigh
eyes slightly misted
youre at your dizzying high.
copyright gothicmistress 2010
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 6:02 AM UTC
It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.
An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?
A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.
Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.
Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.
I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.
Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.
I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.
Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.
No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.
One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC
Your taste runs like kerosene in my veins,
Our kisses, heated, sending my insides aflame;
I spontaneously combust, lover.
Skin to skin, your mouth is concentrated sin
You make lose my morals, the lust is building;
Blinding, my pupils burn;
Yours darken with something primal, tensions thickening;
The anticipation's sinking
right into my gut, I feel your touch
calloused fingertips dancing up my thighs, teasing.
Your body glistening
with sweat, trailing down south
I follow the track hungrily with my mouth
but it doesn't seem enough.
Our hearts beat fast like the ticking
of a timebomb nearing detonation;
We're going to detonate, my love.
We're going to burst in fancy colors like fireworks gone haywire,
the bed is our sky.
We're going to get lost among the sheets,
like sailing across familiar seas.
The moonlight, dangerously bright
they seem to shine from your eyes
but they darken with something like clouds on a stormy night.
And I'm not sure if there really is a God
but tonight I kept calling his name
yours interspersed in between
heavy breathing, our pants sounding
like broken notes of some orchestrated masterpiece
and the crescendo's nearing.
Our pulse following the rising melody
I am mesmerized, out of control
I am lost amidst the euphoria
right now
with you
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is blurred beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your cheek pressed to a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up, you moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hands fumble for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself to sit.
No strength.
The stained bathtub provides something stable to grasp.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.
Who’s outside?
What’s outside?
"It's okay”, he says “You’re fine now.”
You turn and stare.
How long has he been here?
He’s been watching you the entire time.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks towards you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.
“How much did you drink?” He asks timidly.
You lean your head back.
Funny.
“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.
“Shh now. You’re fine. It’s alright. Breathe. Breathe.”, He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.
“No! Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.
“Haven’t I always come back? This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
The ******
Tried so very hard to please his crew
But you see
Out on the high seas
Tensions run high
But you cannot take words
Back
See the crew loved the ******
They just didn’t know how to show it
In the night
The ****** rowed on a rowboat
Far away from the harsh crew
The crew saw him
Stop they yelled
But the ****** was already gone
Just
Like
That.
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 8:23 AM UTC
Every ounce of pressure against my veins,
like the flood of heavy summer rains.
Trying to escape the coating of my flesh,
internal tensions I could not oppress.
I hear crickets, smell the morning dew.
All I can ever concentrate on is you.
Made to feel nervous but oh so calm,
sometimes even sweet like cherry lip balm.
A moment of combustion then release,
your tongue wanders onto my body, into a crease.
I'll never care if I get rich,
so ever long as you ease my twitch.
Stale smoke and the scent of butane,
breath seeps into me like a bloodstain.
You, a child at heart
and I, a freak into abstract art, like Ad Reinhardt.
What a fine creation, our own constellation,
an innovation, better than intoxication.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
I now lay defeated.
Torn from the very thing
I worked endlessly to achieve.
And all that remains
is me.
Emptied of all sensation, hope and desire
I get to relax inside my own skin.
Until the next big thing comes along
pulling me back
into the tensions of the day.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
…and who knows
better than I
the ways of a night owl
or for that matter
the hour of the cat
maybe a cathouse
or simply a bar
take the Texas for instance
cavorting women (or girls)
who for 500 pesetas
plus 100 for room
and 20 minutes
out of one’s life
release your tensions
or maybe more
who knows the reason why
(and who really cares)
for 20 minutes
of uncertainty
you can pretend you’re
a man
and imagine she’s a lady
all for 500 pesetas
plus 100 for room
and 20 minutes
out of your life…
Friday, March 9, 1973 (Barcelona, Spain)
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
Don't be fooled.
I don't woo with words.
I don't woo with actions,
Either.
No, I am too much of a novice.
My intention,
Intended,
To release these tensions
Intensified by the cloud
Of tense living.
In tensions with no spa,
No relief,
No massage,
No pedicure,
No manicure
To calm them.
Ever wondered
Who masseurs
The masseuse?
I don't wonder.
I know.
No one.
Intending
To untensify
The tender
Tendencies of
Tenacious living,
The tenders of
Untended flesh
Relieve your tensions
With no intentions
of receiving intended returns.
They take your tensions
With only intentions
To leave you intense
In the freedom of life.
Meanwhile fragile tensions
Tend to rend them,
Causing trouble and strife.
Feel relieved.
They are in tension,
Don't worry about
Giving attention.
You weren't going to anyway.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
Pedestrian haplessly waiting
For a sign, symbol, anything...
Signs that usher him forth.
Only lead him from north.
Modern hieroglyphs that say,
Halt here... Go that way.
Passing views that beckon
Can't stop but keep direction
Caution...peril impending.
Beware...danger looming .
Watch a storm is brewing.
Stem from aeons' brooding.
Pedestrian...not yet now...
Crawling time you must allow.
Pedestrian...maintain pace.
Don't falter...maintain grace.
Give not to desires' taunts.
Crumble not to guilt that haunts.
Keep moving, stay the course.
Keep at bay, tearful remorse.
Herd along...await instructions.
Restrain all quiet tensions.
Cage within, your sorrowful gait.
Tempted not by beauty's bait.
Pedestrian helplessly waiting.
Between signs, you are searching.
Free will here won't be met.
Your final destination has been set.
Has been set...
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
(Composed by Billy Liebert; Recorded by John Wayne -1973)
Face the Flag of stars and bars,
Of red and white and blue,
A flag that guarantees the rights
For men like me and you.
Face the Flag, son! Read what's written there--
The history, the progress and the heritage we share.
Our flag relects the past, son, but stands for so much more,
And in this Age of Aquarius, it still flies in the fore.
It leads the forward movement, shared by all mankind,
To learn...to love...to live with peace of mind;
To learn the mysteries of space, as well as those of earth;
To love each man for what he is, regardless of his birth;
To live without the fear of reprisal for belief;
To ease the tensions of a world that cries out for relief.
Face the Flag of stars and bars,
Of red and white and blue,
A flag that guarantees the rights
For men like me and you.
Face the Flag, son! Take a good long look.
What you're seeing now can't be found in a history book.
It's the present and the future, son. It's being written now,
And you're the one to write it, but the flag can show you how.
Do you know what it stands for? What its makers meant?
To think...to speak...the privilege of dissent;
To think our leaders might be wrong...to stand and tell them so.
These are the things that other men under other flags will never know.
But responsibility...that's the cross that free men must bear,
And if you don't accept that, the freedom isn't there.
Face the Flag of stars and bars,
Of red and white and blue,
A flag that guarantees the rights
For men like me and you.
Face the Flag, son, and face reality.
Our strengths and our freedoms are based in unity.
The flag is but a symbol, son, of the world's greatest nation,
And as long as it keeps flying, there's cause for celebration.
So do what you've got to do, but always keep in mind,
A lot of people believe in peace...but there are the other kind.
If we want to keep these freedoms, we may have to fight again.
God forbid, but if we do, let's always fight to win,
For the fate of a loser is futile and it's bare:
No love, no peace...just misery and despair.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
Tensions high,
like broken kite strings,
reaching further away,
escaping the empty earth
in your arms.
Creeping chatter,
pouring inky letters,
in runny messes
all over my hands,
feeling bruised by you;
the sting, the slap
as leaking words
drip drip drip
from your mouth,
the broken tap.
I’m tired.
I’m so tired of hearing
soft
whispered yearnings
scratching the back of your throat.
Desperation, loneliness?
You beg with the croon in your tone,
you play along like the gentle little
sweetling,
a songful, humming love,
all warm in cupped hands.
In all this time,
this achingly long time
I’ve played as your neat little trick;
the showman’s trusty pet,
small dove flying
as soon and only when you release me.
String caught up around my waist,
I’ll never fly too far.
As I walked away,
that night with the moon trailing my form,
and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,
you watched my back
stretch lean and tall and
stand
away from you.
You looked back,
it was the moon shifting through my hair,
when I turned to notice
a head shake,
a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.
….Drip….drip….drip,
you leak all those notions I wished you
would one day say,
those heart-melting flatteries,
desirable admissions,
I’m the only one you want,
to keep you satisfied,
keep you going and touching and loving
and exploring and breaking,
until your other girl comes home.
You ask and plead and return,
lapping and licking in my arms,
wanting my form so bad again;
you cry for all the fun in the world,
but this time, it just can’t.
You’re just my broken tap.
You’d need to stop dripping ***** water one day.
You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,
cradling myself to keep my strength enough
to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.
But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.
I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,
intoxicating and breathtaking
as you made me so.
You showed me so.
But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.
Pull me round with you, wait for you,
tossed like an empty drink because of you.
Maybe
I just need to let you
let me go.
Like I cried to let you go first.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
On the road
The dark of night
A fingernail moon
You’re only light
Dead gnarling trees
And hooting owls
The tensions thick
It twists your bowels
The air is chill
It cuts the skin
It’s hard to think
The trouble you’re in
Surely lost
This road is queer
Every dark turn
Filled with fear
Every step uphill
No hope in sight
Every step you take
Takes all your might
Just when you think
The end is near
The way ahead
It starts to clear
Fog starts to lift
It clears your sight
And up ahead
Reveals a light
It takes the shape
Of a cottage door
Whether it’s safe
You’re not quite sure
A wayward cottage
You might find rest
Or just another
Of the devil’s tests
Light so bright
You cannot see
Just through the door
What might there be
You steal your courage
Through the door
You’re in suspense
And I’ll tell no more
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
**** **** as the world teaches you to,
And do not be ashamed that you do,
Nasty world clergy keeping you,
Keeping you rather restricted.
Wanking it off and easing the pressure,
Above *********** you always rise,
Not paying heed to their words,
Kiss oneself as much wished.
**** off your tensions and problems,
And do not be uncertain about it,
Nostredamus did it often too,
Kind of intelligentia do it.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
It's like a catalyst
Where I'm running out of words
Because the words I can't say
Aren't there
It's the
Feeling old while I'm drinking coffee
Feeling young absorbed into a book
Almost feeling me when I
Reach that space
In between
There's a moment staring at the tv
Excited because someone got kissed
Seconds when I write a sentence
Knowing it's nonsense
But there's a pause
And falling to one side
(My back acting up)
(Giggling while I run)
Searching for a domestic peace
Being pushed to the side
Searching for
Growing up
Maybe
It's hard
Tensions that shouldn't exist
Tensions that aren't seen by anyone else
Pulling away in an effort to walk the line
Searching for a balance
In between the tension
It feels like a catalyst
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 9:54 PM UTC
I see myself in light and shadow.
I wipe away “always and never” like spilled water,
when the paradox bothers me.
I dissolved my soft boundaries,
in the name of unreal faith.
So many places, so many faces,
yet another beginning.
I keep rolling a big stone beside others.
The home I dreamt of now exists in my world.
I have found this time, this place
describing what cannot be translated:
a room for uncertainty,
farewells and returns.
I like to stand in the last row,
to see tired bodies.
I whisper good words,
to make the world a little better.
My sovereignty is a willingness
to be an echo,
the symbol, the myth,
or a meaningless element
in the chain of woven stories.
I love metaphors.
I find myself in a forest of ellipses,
that bring unbearable truths.
Tensions, contradictions,
awareness that everything that lights
brings unseen weight.
I am a part of stories,
to vanish into oblivion—
the done past.
The Earth still breathes with me,
or without me,
among blooming linden trees.
So, I want to stay,
to open my eyes,
and be with what remains.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 2:16 PM UTC
After feeling like this, to my lowest low and my highest high
You made me realize what it’s like to die, not emotionally but physically
A new thought I never had in my head,
To have my breath shortened, just because I let you into my bed.
This is a new extreme for me, which is hard to beat.
For you filled my life with guilt, shame and deceit.
You pushed me to the ground, deteriorating every little ounce of me
Testing me with trivial questions. I should have recognized the warning sign, bright yellow and shiny black titled “hazard”. Like the reflection of a roadwork sign, saying slow down, danger, caution, this is the borderline.
My instinct was right, No honour go back I said.
You had something over me, like a beautiful grey moth entranced to the light, but deep down inside I knew your world burned too bright. Your personality just stuck to me,as if I was ants attracted to the sweet honey that dripped off the honey comb.
Inside, I knew I should go home.
Words fly, tensions get high.
Why did I not go back to Vendome?
His hands strong hands wrapped round my soft neck, pushing me into the bed, I felt my heart pulsating.
I closed my eyes wishing that he would push harder and longer, to actually feel something other than this pain and misery that he placed upon me.
He looked at me in gratification, that smirk said it all, as he accomplished sometime great like an encore at curtain call.
A look of a great man, big and powerful now its time to take a shower, as what he did was nothing the matter.
My state in shock. What has happened? Is this really unmasking his disguise?
For the mask he wore was unforeseen, like a child at halloween.
The tears in my eyes was not avid, until he clenched his hand to play rock paper scissors,
but little did I know that his rock would cut through my paper.
leaving me with bruises and now a traitor.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC