Dead Rose One May 2015
let us to the chase cut,
love lesbians
for we
value the same thing...

a woman's beauty,
a woman's way of seeing,
a god-miracle,
walking down the street,
can barely breathe,
his female creatures delightful,
want want want want
the fullness of their presence,
in my life, even just, my eyes,
adoration of the magi

they make me,
real,
they make me,
life worth living,
this is art appreciation,
load and life bearing,
they humble, gentle
this birth-cursed
man,
they make me
who I am...
better
this is not about sex, if that, is not amply clear...
M Salim Jun 20
I can't turn you down
I have every intention
of saying

No.
I can't.
I can't keep torturing myself like this.

But, when the moment comes
I can't resist
It's just the way it is
and we both know it

Because I crave feeling
you close to me,
holding me
for a moment
allowing ourselves
to be one

Because the moment
when you kiss my forehead
my heart beats out
of my chest, so hard
I'm scared you can feel it
pressed up against yours
and melts,
into a pool of your own

I can't turn you down

Not in those
rare moments of
tenderness
with an honesty
that touch can never
betray
in the way words & silences
can and will

And all my resolve
and self-control
evaporates
like the sparks flying
into the night sky

As we take off
each other's clothes
entering into our
forbidden

When the lights turn down
I can't turn you down

But when we wake
to the light of day
we go back to being
just you
and me.

Disentangling our legs
and souls

And after you leave
I lie there still
and vow to myself
that next time
I will turn you down
Odious Wench Aug 2
I love
that you
will willing
sweat
Just to see
me in
something
less
m Oct 2017
We don’t use diaries anymore -
those are meant for secrets,
and we have none.
We let them spill out of our bodies,
and pour onto blank white sheets.
We swear it’s the only way
we are going to heal.

We turn our pain into poetry.
Anything that hurts this much
has to mean
something.
And even though we are desperate
for anyone to listen,
our language is in the letters
that we will never send.

We romanticize pain like it’s the
only lover we will ever know.
Love is our god and we are each our own devils.
Too fragile for this world,
ceremoniously destroying ourselves
before anyone else can do it for us.
Yet we still can’t understand why we’re so broken.
English Jam Jun 14
The air is perfumed with fresh rosemary's
And the wild springs with lush berries
Their presence colours the nursery with a sweet loom
It bleeds into the forecast for tomorrow's gloom
Nostalgia hits hard, heartbreaking and eerie
For a day when I wasn't paranoid and weary
Well, I'll be down by the Brighton pier
Watching birds float past in lonely fear
I'd love to turn away

The pristine sun shines like Hades
The outside scent is yellow, maybe
Little daises laugh in the foreground
Gardens sow a loving sound
Once I could see hope in the trees
And the love that whispered on the breeze
Now the trees foreshadow longing
And the gale howls with wronging
I'd love to turn away

The intimacy in my yellow tinted flowers seems to have faded
And the soft orchards have been invaded
My words burnt in a smouldering pile of dust
And steaming with the heat of my lust
I told a crowd I had something to say
But the people turned away
away
away...
An older neighbor of mine
did recently confide;

"Reckon I'm gettin' ready to die,
my mind ain't working so smooth
anymore, open my skull and what
might 'ya see, would resemble some
surreal Salvador Dali painted scene.
All melted watches and disjointed shit.

My legs are unreliable at best,
my back continually aches,
blasted headaches refuse to abate.

I shuffle along like some broke
down thing, balance sketchy at best.
My recall comes and goes like a
random weak spray from a garden hose.
Spurts, leaks running here and there,
No continuous steady stream going
anywhere, not unlike when I try to pee.

They took my drivers license,
said I was incapable today and
would be more so tomorrow.

I used to dream of things I'd do,
beautiful girls I'd like to screw.
Now any dreams I can recall
revolve around food and that's
pretty much all.

I wake at 6 AM each day
my body racked with pain,
eat some mush and sit in my chair,
fall asleep and wake 'bout noon.
Repeat some food, return to my chair,
turn on the tube, 20 minutes in feeling
like the world is a hopeless damn mess.
Even todays music ain't fit to hear.
Taking me yet another nap in my chair.

I used to care 'bout lots of things,
now I can't remember why or where.
If these here are my golden years,
I'd rather be young, broke and naked
in the back seat of my '48 Chevy,
lovin' my Cheerleader girlfriend Amy,
now those were the Golden Years."
He has no living family, lives alone,
his dog died last year. He took down
all the clocks in his house, gave away
his granddads pocket watch. He leased
out his farm, got rid of his animals. Sold
off his John Deere tractors to a neighbor.
Uses only two rooms in a big old house
with ten . He is alone as alone gets.
He's 86 uses a cane to steady his steps.
We would need to walk in his shoes
to know his pain, in a few years perhaps
we too will know what he means.
Could this be why young people
avoid old people, I bet it is. They can't
stand looking in their Futures mirror.
Alaina Moore Mar 2013
Plagiarism of worthless ideals,
That you so ignorantly hold high.
Shaking in amazement,
How can you call your self alive?

Totalitarian, lethargic lifestyle.
Ignominious displays of disaffection.
Constant contradictions;
Out of your mind.

Caught up in the clouds,
Cognition of mania and level debauched.
Up to high to realize, an “open mind” with locked doors.
Maslow, Skinner, and Darwin alike, turn in their graves,
Over your lack of evolution.
CK Baker Feb 11
lines cut heavy
on a button stretched brow
thick rubber shoes
and dragon canes
fill out the closet floor
gospel sounds
and narratives (drowned)
apparitions set sullenly
with voices of the past

finger pins
and crosswords
find the favor list
point men and preachers
tip up their tuscany caps
twitching and sign gazing
with spectacles held firm
recurring evening news
and beadledom views

clappers and caregivers
raise a crooked foot
grips and rockers
settle in on the front porch
gertrude grimaces
at an untimely turn
as the gooseberry pie
(with a smidgen of cloves)
chills by the nighlite watch
With a rush of burning desires,

I turn your world, as I touch you, into a ball of fire,

Where our sweat begins to fall, and the degrees of the room creep higher and higher,

I slip off your bra, and proceed to strip you from the rest of your attire,

As there's a look in your eyes that's electric as a live wire,

The grip of my hands around the curves of your frame become tighter and tighter,

Hearing with thuds of the baseboard beginning to knock at the wall–I treat this moment ever so dire,

Where I pull you in close–in this room full of yearning fire,

And make love to you–
With my body full of rushing and burning desires
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