Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Teresa Magaña Jan 2012
Thoughts of you running your fingers down my spine
As if you were unzipping my flesh to find your way inside
As the tip of your…fingers…reach the dip, of the small of my back
I shutter
I smile
I tremble, letting out a sigh
Letting out a small giggle as I feel the hairs all over my body rise
All these thoughts of you consume and occupy my mind
Thoughts of such a glorious night
A night when no one else existed
Those thoughts will remain with me forever
Thoughts of how everything felt so right, but knowing it really wasn’t our time
Memories of how you stared into my eyes
You stared intensely
I stared intently
You gripped the back of my neck, pulling my hair just slightly and roughly enough to make me pulsate even further into your arms,
Your embrace
Pulling me close enough to feel the blood pulsate in your bottom lip
Making me speed up the rhythm of the continuous sway in my hips
Its just a memory now
Of that night
A night I looked into your eyes and saw that you could get lost in mine
And you did
You got lost in me
On me,
In, between me
Between my heated thighs
I felt you fire up
Felt your finger tips burn and steam away my moisture into the late hours of the night
And into the early hours right before the sunrise
I kissed the tip of your nose
Slid my hand slightly over your neck to your chest to your belly
As if I were unzipping you open so I could see what passion looks like from the inside
And I saw it
Through imaginary lines
Passion flowing through a caged soul
A fiery heart
Just enough passion for our one night
RMatheson May 2011
There's a threaded zipper on your pants
made of little stitches of red
which grasp the zipper's brass teeth,
which match the enamel tools
which grow from my pink gums
which pull at that handle.

As it slides down, the teeth of brass
pull apart
(skin from a peach).

Little coquette,
I can see the smirk of giddy shame
as the denim drops
and you are bare.
Snehith Kumbla May 2016
after a bout of giggling,
we quietly discarded
whatever we wore

and at the other
bookend of the act
the tent unzipping

a luxury of clouds
drifting to a *****
moon full ripe heavy
A poetic drama (One Scene)

( Egypt’s parliamentary farce)

(The spokesperson on the presidium strikes the table with a wooden hammer and asks for order. Participants become quiet.
Raise your hands and reflect your views on today’s point of argument— The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD ) on Blue Nile. Various people representatives raise hands,
The spokesman says let us start with Mr. Hydrologist over there.)

Egypt’s globally
Topmost voluminous
Underground
Reserve of water
We could use later.
So via our media outlets
It is better
We dupe
The global community with
Much-touted chatter
“To Egyptians
Demand of water
To cater
Blue Nile is
A life and
Death matter!
As thicker than blood
Is water! ”

Of course,
From the Mediterranean
Or Red Sea
We could extract, desalinate
And use water,
But why should
We talk about that?
We better
Ask on Blue Nile
A farfetched exclusive right.

Though hydropower dam
Has no significant harm
We shall flout it
In a way it runs
Out of charm.
As  the Nobel peace winner
Premier  Abiy Ahmed put it
"Almost all Egyptians
Enjoy the supply of electricity,
While over half of Ethiopians
Are thirsty of such necessity.

Tragically, to date
Using a lamp
Covers most of Ethiopia's map.

For the rational,
It is a source of worry
Innumerable Ethiopian mothers
Still on their backs carry
Backbreaking firewood
So that go to school
Their children could.
What we say
Is if you  are remiss to help
don't stand on our way
While we're flapping wings
From fettering poverty
To break away!"


Also via a conduit
Diverting Blue Nile
Across the Sahara desert
A financial return
Egypt could get
That delights its heart.
The water from
Upstream countries
We do not buy
But paradoxically sell it
We shouldn’t why?

Like Israel
Using drip irrigation
Must not
Draw our attention.
We shall be extravagant
For Blue Nile’s water
Is abundant.
Unchecked lavishly
It must flow!
Pertaining to that
We have to remain adamant.

Also, the
Silt accumulation
In Aswan dam
Could be disastrous
The outcome,
Yet we have
To cry foul
This challenge-averting
GERD must not soon
Generate region-
much-needed power!

Though it is 50 % of the
Annual trans boundary
Water outflow
Other water-generating countries
Are willing to let go
Unwilling anything below,
Kind Ethiopia ventures
Holding only 13% of
The yearly flow to follow,
However, ingratitude
Must feature our attitude.
This may
Provoke a  dismay
But attention
We shall not pay.

(A tumultuous applause shook the parliament. Once more the spokesman asks for order. Then he invites a former diplomat saying “ it is your turn.”)

Once, by famine hit
When Ethiopia   asked
“Help me not why?”,
While others extended help,
Mocking, we did turn
A blind eye.

As our former bent
Whenever Ethiopia
Seeks  grant
From international
Development Institutions
On grounds of
Fighting poverty and drought,
Greasing palms  
We shall bring
Ethiopia’s plans to harness
Blue Nile to naught!
Use we shall
Many a phony diplomat
With a tongue of honey
And a heart of gall.

Tact we do not lack
So cautiously,
Our sanctimonious mask
Our targets
May not hack,
All out
We shall engage in
Self-selling talk!

From all things that fall
In the technical matrices
We shall make a sham politics.

(He sits enjoying a standing ovation. The spokesman invites a representative with a military background.)

We shall blow our
Trumpet in the air
“In lieu of
The reasonable 3 years,
Cooperatively,
From 4 to 6 years
To fill the dam
If Ethiopians dare,
War on it
We shall declare!
Barefacedly claiming
Fifteen to 20 years
Is what is fair!

In such infeasible way
Before it sees the day’s light
GERD will suffer blight.”

(He hiccups and continues)

“With a bellicose bent
To remind ourselves
Deliberately we shall fail
So many times Ethiopia
Chased out every
Egypt’s invading army
Between its legs
Shoveled its tail.
(Ex. Isma'il Pasha/ 1874 –1876
Gundet &Gura March 7–9, 1876)
But why should we care
Arsenal support
Hypocrites, who want to exploit
In the Middle East
Egypt’s political purport,
Will bring to our port.
The current catchphrase
"I can't breathe"
Demonstrates hypocrites'
Justice has no teeth!

We shall
Continue to brag
About GERD’s full actualization
Foot to drag.
I’m afraid
If we strike GERD,
On Aswan dam
Ethiopia will certainly inflict
A similar harm.
Its infantry
Acid-tested hero
Within finger-counted days
Will march into Cairo.

Its top official or
One from its mob
Cold blow up in Egypt a bomb.

We have to understand
As its former PM
Meles put it
“It is not
Its football squad
Ethiopia will deploy
On the terrain rough
When the going
Gets tough!”

We shouldn't worry
We have no history
Of battle front victory.
Poking our nose here and there
(Sudan, Somalia, Yemen,
Libiya, Palestine, Israel)
We shall make political trouble
As we are averse to self
-politics burgeoning dabble.

(He sat after enjoying a heartwarming laughter from the audience. The spokesman himself could not help unzipping his lips and invites a hoary headed historian.)

Subjects of colonization
It is our
Historic right
For the hanging-over
Mentality of predators
To fight
“Gobbling down
All resources
Is our right!”
We shall espouse
Unjust and inequitable deal
“Ethiopia fairly
GERD must not fill!”
We must gamble
Regarding the water division
There has to be a deal
That serves our colonial
Legacy a sign and seal.

There is nothing we hate
Than the following sentiment
Pan Africanists activate.
"We have to get
Behind our back
Days dark!"

(He sits accompanied by an affirmative nods. The spokesman invited Miss Environmentalist "it is your turn." "Thank you for the opportunity,"  she said and  standing she scanned the congregants
before speaking)

In parrying evaporation
GRERD being built in a gorge
Than Aswan Dam
In the desert
Draws better attention.
Though logical,
This we do not wish to hear
So we shall turn a deaf ear
Saying
“Your nuisance
We no longer bear!”

Of course
To avoid siltation
In GERD
Also to ensure
The continuous flow of water
Towards Green development
Ethiopia is making an unprecedented &
Unflagging movement.

Yes , Yes
Green development
Draws rain
Though that is
To our gain
From expressing
Appreciation to
Ethiopia’s timely move
We shall refrain.

From the voice of
Sagacious leaders of
Africa
It is better
To heed a hypocrite
From America;
That could not be a shame
In the political game.

(She takes a seat enjoying a high five. The spokesman invites a parliamentarian who is a member of the Arab league.)

As Sudan poses
A rational gait
Its voice has weight.
Our sugar-coated talk
It may not buy
Hence, the fuel-intoxicated
Gluttonous Arab League
Its voice
Needs to raise high.
White supremacists
Must try hard
To sweet talk Sudan
To our side.
Otherwise
Creating political heat
In to two its people
We have to split
To unseat
Its incumbent president
Popular support that ride.
This  insidious tide
From Sudanese mob
We have to hide!

We have a toy League
That doesn’t ask itself
“ Why
War-fleeing Arabs ,
Shunned by Arabs,
Seek a safe haven
Under Ethiopia’s sky?
Why  of all
In Prophet Mohammed's eyes
Ethiopia stands tall?”
That no one could deny
But we must
Neither wonder  nor ponder
“Why
For own advantage
Arabs-eating-Arabs
That commit  
Political suicide
Could not
Stand by
The reasonable
Ones’ side?”

Creating this and  
That pretext
We shall derail
The all-out task
To bring GERD’s to end,
At long last
To make it
As good as dead.

Why should we care?
If Ethiopia or the region is
Thirsty of hydropower
In so far as
Our conceited
Pride remains
In glory tower.


Moreover if soured
Pushed to the end or angry
Reflect  we must not
Ethiopians could tame
Its this or that tributary.

(When a wealthy merchant raised his hand the spokesman gave him a green light to speak.)

Pampering with money
Fifth columnists cruel
Let us keep on using
In Ethiopia
As runs the adage
Divide and rule,
Along ethnic
And religious lines
To  drive a wedge
So that Ethiopians will not
Come to the same page,
While turmoil in their country
Opts to rage.

We could ignore the fact
Ethiopians soon display
Unity and solidarity
When threatened gets
Nation’s  sovereignty.
In Ethio-Somali war
Ethiopians Karamara’s Victory
Talks loud such history.

I'm afraid
Our  divisive action could
Bring together Ethiopians,
Be it on left or right end,
Their sovereignty to defend.


Robbed of
Their alluvial soil
By a prodigal river
Ethiopia’s  farmers
Undergo a hard toil
If we are asked for that
Compensation to pay
“No!”
We  have  to say.

Note that
Using industrialization
Like Japan
Develop we can
Than irrigating  
A- scorching-sun
-smoldered land
Full of sand.

As the  jealously insane
What should worry Egypt
Must not  be what  it could lose
But  Ethiopia gain.
What I fear
In the diplomatic arena
With GERD Ethiopia
Will come forth
Shifting gear.
When Ethiopians' development
Proceeds apace
Ethiopia could Egypt displace.
So on its development
We  have to pose a roadblock
Or a spoke.
.

(This much  farce is enough for today .Parliament is dismissed says the spokesman.)////////
Science-based approach visa-vis politics- based approach. Colonial legacy has no room in the 21th century
luci Oct 2015
Sophomore year.
Spring break.
Crying.
Why can’t I stop?
Just stop it, ******* it!
You’re being pathetic.

Ding Ding
It’s a text.
“Hey! You free tonight?”
I didn’t think he’d text me.
I can’t.
It’d be wrong.
“Totally. What’d you have in mind?”
Oh no.
What’d I just do?
“I could pick you up around 10 and maybe just chill?”
10?
Pm?
Why so late?
“Yeah. Can’t wait!”

Tick
Tick
Tick
Tick

9pm:
What do I wear?
What do I wear?

9:45pm:
Put on eyeliner.
Put on mascara.
Put on lipstick.

10pm:
Okay.

10:05pm:
Where is he?

10:10pm:
Just wait.

10:15pm:
Should be here anytime now.

10:20pm:
Just a couple more minutes.

10:25pm:
Give him some more time.
I can’t expect him to be here right away.

10:30pm:
Is he coming?

10:35pm:
Did he forget?

10:45pm:
It was a joke.
Funny.

10:50pm:
Ding Ding
It’s a text.
“Hey, I’m here.”
Open my window.
Crawl out.
Ouch!
A nail  was sticking out.
Blood.
Blood is dripping down my leg.
It's okay.
He's here.
He's here.

What am I doing?
"Hey, you look nice."
He thinks I look nice.
"Thanks."
We drive.
And drive.
And drive.
Where are we?
It’s dark.
So dark.
I hear crickets.
And his breathing.
His breathing.
His breathing.
His breathing.

What is this?
A shed.
Abandoned.
“Sit down.”
Where do I sit?
It’s so dark.
I can’t see.
Where are we?
Where am I?
Where am I?

His hand is on my thigh.
What’s he doing?
“You’re so beautiful.”
He can’t see me.
I can’t see him.
It’s so dark.
“Thanks.”
His hand is higher now.
I should’ve worn pants.
He’s taking off my underwear
My package bought *******.
What’s he doing?
What’s he doing?
What’s he doing!
Do I like it?
Is he happy?
I want him to be happy.
Just let him do it.

His breathing.
His breathing.
My breathing.

It’s gone.
My underwear.

Oh my god.
Just sit here.
It’s okay.
He’s here.
He’s not going to hurt me.
He can’t.
He won’t.
It’s okay.

He’s unzipping.
What’s he unzipping?
I can’t see.
His hands on my *******.
I don’t know what to feel.
What do I feel?
What should I feel?
What does he feel?

His hands on my bare legs.
I flinch.
“It’s okay.”
It’s okay.

It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.
Stop please.
Please stop.
I can’t take it.
I can’t take it.
Stop.
I want to be happy.
I just want to be happy.
I want him to be happy.
Just be happy.
Be happy.
Happy.
Is he happy?

Tick
Tick
Tick
*Tick
sasha m george Oct 2013
Punk Rock John introduced himself to me at my first show. He said, “kid.. protect your teeth, do NOT lick the walls, and don’t ******* the crusty’s. If you get cut, let it bleed– you’ll be fine.”
I was 15 years old, thinking about unzipping my veins. And while most 15 year olds would have done drugs or written a ******* poem, I went to ****** bars and basements and gave my best friends black eyes.

For the first time in my life, I knew that when I fell, someone was gonna pick me up. That first mosh pit was not a quiet conversation about suicide, it was Punk Rock John telling me, “Hey *******! Don’t **** yourself! Don’t waste your unscarred knuckles.” My rage bloomed. Why hate myself when I can hate parents, high school, the radio, record stores, magazines, corporations, yuppies, my parents, cops, rain, sunshine, beach days, phone books, and tiny ******* cupcakes? *******, if that first day of punk didn’t sound like Buddy Holly played back, double time, distorted, compressed into four chords.

The first time I saw Punk Rock John, he was halfway through a frontflip stage dive, and he landed directly on me. He picked me up, dusted me off, and threw me back in the pit. Punk Rock John was 6’4, had hands the size a kick drum, and he smelled like a 20-year rain. He was Noah. He was our shepherd. One time, I was getting ready to dropkick some metal kid when John got me in a headlock and said, “quit ******* around, Neil! You don’t know who this kid’s friends are, and I ain’t putting you out if they set you on fire.”

John told us, “the church of punk rock was always open. If you wanna pray, just crank up the stereo until your ears bleed. If you wanna pray, just grab your brothers and sing! Sing out of tune, sing the wrong words- just sing! Loud!”

But then some out-of-town skin dropped a guillotine knifeblade into John’s skull. The blood was pouring from his ears. He was dead before he hit the ground. John brought me into a world where I felt loved, and that world took him away. I buried my leather jacket, patched the holes in my jeans, and tried to pluck the chords like stitches from my chest.. but John still speaks to me. When the world is larger than I am, when my chest is a vice.. I put that needle on the record, I turn it up until I can’t hear ****, and I tell myself: as long as I have hands, I can break something. As long as we can breathe, we can sing. As long as I can remember, I will hear him– he says, “kid, you’ll be fine.”
Nigel Finn May 2016
Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple façades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.
I apologise for not being around much recently- I've been pupating/hiding/developing/running away, but I'm aware I've been missing out on lots of beautiful poetry recently, and hope to be able to at least skim through the backlog of what I've missed while I've been gone, and start replying to the kind, insightful, constructive, and inspirational messages I haven't got round to yet. I appreciate each opinion and point of view and am by no means ignoring you (well...not *intentionally* anyway)  :-)
Skaidrum Feb 2017
...
new moon
"just let me sleep,"
moon eaten
my absence upsets all.
Look at me, really look at me,
stare up at the belly of a loved sky,
watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope,
feeling around for a sliver,
of sweet milk,
of relief,
of anything;

new moon whispers
on the dead bodies left behind,
god sighs---
he knows;

"I am not the same"

waxing crescent
map out my wreckage,
my skeleton of poetry;
in the spines of books loved by mankind,
bury me there in a pages of flowers---
in the altitude of words;
read me with a hunger you have never known before,
over and over;
whenever it seems fit~
like the light of the moon is a cigarette.

smoking,
he's always smoking now.
god takes another drag;
he describes to me:

"You could be my bible,
you book of blood"


I can't stand smoke...

"I have no business in being your  holy snakeskin."

first quarter
I've been searching for
solid ground, solid shadows,
a solid compromise;

I wanted a little more
than ordinary love from him so I

asked him where the static began,
for me it's below my bottom left rib
and found that it was also where the spiders started too.

Time, that quiet thing
obeys god, only
because it waits for no one

it loves
unzipping the law of alchemy,
cause ink flowered in my blood again;
I should thank time
it was this saving kind of grace;
always has been

god stroked my hair this time
and said quietly:

"You see,
the saddest thing is realizing
that there's nothing more they can do for you"


waxing gibbous
Oh, where's my love?
Is it in the fever I call happiness,
is it in the sword my mama raised me to be

Is it in the way
the moon tiptoes closer
when he says my name
in that beautiful way he does

or breaks my name
over his teeth like it's just
glass apples

God doesn't even look at me
he doesn't have to;

"Do you believe in angels?"

the wreckage answers him
"not lately"

full moon
And it begins again
I watch as he just looks away
and says it's fine
it hurts

god narrows his eyes but shrugs

"Pain had other plans for you."

I breathe out raggedly;

"I guess,
if there's no key
then I'll just swallow the whole door."

...
I trusted you.
I love you more than anything.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Emelia Ruth Jun 2013
The land flooded,
the sky was dark and wet.
I had reached the bottom of my jar
and there was no glory.
It was all drained away and swallowed up by careless mouths.

A pool had formed
in the flooded land
and in it sat two boys;
young like adolescences
yet humble and mature with knowledge.

I felt like I should know them,
but their faces were masked by their black hoodies.
And their voices matched everyone's
and they matched no one's.

One beckoned me to swim to them.
They were familiar
in a welcoming stranger way.
So I submerged into the comforting warm water,
and I slowly swam next to the boy.

The one who beckoned asked me,
"What is your story?"
and
just as easily as unzipping a jacket,
I spilled out my worries
he soaked up my loneliness and aches,
and I found myself
curled up in his arms.

He took my empty jar
and filled it with a glowing light.
The land surrounding
was still cold and dark
but the light inside was the one thing that brought me
warmth and renewal
and undying hope and joy.

He was the holy man.
Who welcomes everyone
and forgives everyone.
He is equal.
He is greater.
He is the one who sat in the flooded land
and waited for me
so that he could give me
a wholesome warmth
that I've never felt until now.
samasati Sep 2012
I want to ****** you with my blue eyes
take you in for a little while
then walk away into another room
then come back and take you in a little while longer
until you come over and speak to me
then I want to listen to your every word
nod, smile, laugh, touch your arm
touch your thigh
look into your eyes
telling you
I want to kiss you
secretly in some kind of visual code,
that I want to lick your neck a little bit
and nibble on your ear
make you go crazy
make you tingle and pull away from
feeling too overwhelmed
then coming back to receive more,
and after that happens,
I want to crawl my fingers up your shirt
feel your warm stomach skin
ribs
chest
shoulders
pulling it over your head and throwing it on the floor
caressing your torso
hand prints against your back
pulling you closer toward me
pressing my pelvis up against yours
taking initiative
on my tippytoes
letting you take initiative
bending your back to my height
and it’s all muscle memory from there on;
breaking away from your lips and pressing my own
up against your collar bone
your shoulders
your chest
your treasure trail
your hip bones
undoing your belt
taking quite some time at this task because I find that
every man’s belt is very confusing to undo -
finally, success
pulling it through the belt loops
popping the button out of the hole
unzipping the zipper
clasping onto each side and pulling down
pushing down
they’re around your ankles and you step out
and then you’re in your briefs
just your briefs
all else is skin and devilish looks
then, pushing me onto the bed
on top of me with a ******* pressing up against
the space between my open legs
that wrap around your hips
kissing my neck
biting my neck
licking my neck
my earlobes
my shoulders
my collar bone
tongue swirls around the aroused tips of my chest
arousing me more
wanting me more
wanting you more
then you’ll take off my underwear and I’ll be fully naked
for you
on this bed that I want to ******* on
biting my lip
leaning forward to pull down your briefs
and you are fully naked
for me
you pop out freely
hard
stiff
pink
eager
your ******* linger low and decide I am ready
in goes the stiff  
out goes a moan
out pulls the stiff
in it goes again
I cannot describe what it is like
when you look me in the eyes when we make love
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley

Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis

Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling *******

I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** ******* was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping

And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano

*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling *******

I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold ******* of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Cm Mar 2019
Unzipping my heart
You are emptying
My hidden thoughts
As these words
Thank you
My love
©️Sobbingsoul
tread Nov 2012
Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.
a poem written last July; published on my blog, but never released on Hello Poetry as I often forgot of its existence until I ran into it again from time to time.
The strokes,

of my brush,

against the Canvas,

depict the features,

forming the image,

of you,

my Romeo.



Hazel eyes mesmerize me,

revealing the key,

to your soul.

An alluring smile,

intrigues my interest,

dreaming of your lips,

caressing my own.



The view of your form,

exposes your body,

embellished in ******,

similar to the gods,

of Greek and Roman antiquity,

intoxicates me.



As I finish,

my masterpiece,

temptation persuades me,

to move towards,

you,

my male model,

to render,

my artistic expression.



You gaze into my eyes,

yearning to taste,

my lips as passion emanates,

from our kiss.



You come closer to me,

removing my blouse,

with your firm hands,

brushing against my torso.

You lower yourself down,

to your knees,

unzipping my paint-splattered jeans,

with your teeth.



After the removal,

of my garments,

you carry me,

into the bedroom,

gently placing,

me upon your bed.



Your breath warms,

my skin,

as you strike,

my exterior,

with the blade of lust,

fiercely thrusting,

in the heat,

of the night.



Our bodies unite,

interweaving our souls,

igniting an intimate explosion,

between ourselves,

consuming our spirits.



A safe haven,

becomes my reality,

as I lay into your arms,

whispering sweet nothings,

to enchant your ears.

I drift into slumber,

resting my head,

upon your chest,

holding your hand,

as my world,

is at peace.



I awake before you,

leaving to create works of art,

write sensual poetry,

reflecting on my thoughts,

of you,

to reveal my admiration,

for you,

my soul-mate,

brought to me,

by the hands of Venus.
Mariam Paracha Jan 2013
You…
Good for nothing, light weighted
Changes direction according to the wind
It does not have a mind of its own
But I trusted it
To shelter and protect me
But alas…
I live in a windy city,
And it tends to be greedy
Gathering things that lie in its path,
Just like a colonizer
blowing across from one country
to another.

I pin together the sides
Of my fly away kameez/ dress
With nervous, embarrassed fingers
Pressing down, as if to close
a window or a swinging door
left unlocked on a windy day
letting black cats and dusty winds make their way.

Incontrollable weightless
It rises, it flashes
Waving like a red flag in front of a blind bull
Eyes on the Prize - You’re such a tease
I fumble carelessly
My hands desperately try
To hold down my dignity
Before it flies away,
Like a feather from a bird
That slowly descends to the floor
It is so light and so delicate.
It can be easily ripped off
and plucked away like a shriveled
dead fly away hair

I become a nervous wreck, picking at my scalp
One by one, wrapping it around my finger,
running my fingers through my hair
only to find bare skin, lying under dead hair.
Vulnerably the naked scalp peeks
through thin strands of hair
like a sheer curtain that hangs in my room
too afraid to draw it,
because I will have to put faces to the silhouettes,
And I rather know the world
as shadows and black outlines
At least that way
I won’t have to see the eyes
that pierce through me,
Unzipping my skin.
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
The people regrettably frown
on Congress men with their pants down.
Poor ****** was caught in a lie
concerning unzipping his fly.
Despite having just wed his bride
****** wanted some on the side.
Now both sides of the aisle are atwitter
that his twee-tie was a babysitter.
He gave poor Ms Pelosi a fright
when she saw that he hangs to the right.
He looks in your eyes when he lies
but I doubt anyone is surprised
He was known as a distinguished member
now a registered ****** offender
Anthony ******'s lapse in judgement- one of the low lights of 2011 in Washington D.C.
Arke Nov 2018
I like to think about her pleasing you
the sloppy drunken kisses planted
her fingers hastily unzipping your pants
hands groping your naked hips
that she would kneel before you
as if pleging her allegiance to you
working her hardest to draw out
sunflowers in fauvist orange
her tongue spiraling around
edges of your handsome sweetness
I only wish you could've enjoyed it
felt easy enough to love others back
there is not enough of it in this world
let her take you in if you'd like
your pleasure and happiness comes first
all I love deserves to be shared and seen
there is no point to hidden artwork
or unheard music, no matter how gorgeous
love, too, ought to be shared
A serene cottage upon a dreary hillside
  Where my mind's listless galaxy of neurons
Synapse in the absolute darkness,
  Is painted in Victorian hues, cold and haunting.

Dejection rains down from the leeward sky
  With nothing harkened save for the ocean's
Stormy roar and a desolate lighthouse,
  Beckoning through the fog and memoirs of the past.

The deeper my soul is carved out with sorrow,
  The deeper the hollow can be filled with joy.
But alas, I feel nothing of joy but only a void
  Left by the dagger of yesterday's darkening tragedies.

I feel the rain soothe my skin and kiss my cheek
  Like the sweetest lover on midnight's embrace,
Yet my moth-eaten quilt of memories only seems
  Enough to shelter our legs but ne'er our feet.

My heart feels the warmth of an autumn fire,
  Kindling in the crisp rain, bleeding beneath
A rose where we burn in the endless torture
  Of our own despondence.

I can feel the blood in my veins turning to fire
  As I imagine her fingertips unzipping my spine
As though it were full of secrets and mysteries
  Unbeknowst to myself...

I can feel the inferno that rages within my aortic arch
  Every moment I imagine losing myself within her
Eyes, glimmering like an eclipse over a midnight
  Sea...the Sleepless Coventry.

She unlocks my secrets and weaves them in the bouquet
  Of tendrils in her hair like ribbons of crimson and light,
Waving in the vehement northerlies with numbing scents
  Of argan and spice.

Her body is but a canvas wrapped neatly around a
  Paper mache skeleton, the most beautifully tragic
Foundation known to humanity...
  
She arrives right on the equinox to set fire to my sorrow,
  Intoxicating me with her kiss and infecting me with her smile.

And so enters the conflagration of my soul,
  An annihilation of light, blackening my coronary
Artery whilst shooting smoke through my cinnamon
  Whiskey tainted veins.

'Tis hard to look through such a misconstrued lens
  As such, the Vena Cava Kaleidoscope...
Where the flames burn through the galaxy of neurons
  Expending the harrowing memories as its fuel.

I can see the magnetic alloy of her Cobalt eyes reflecting
  The fire that consumes me from the inside out.
She pulls on me like the moon pulls upon the tide
  As she whispers with her soft, enamored sigh.

I burn in my silent knowing, my liquid mind
  Awakening in fervor and strange euphoria.

I burn for the Aurora Infinite.
Mallory Michaud Dec 2018
Have you ever felt fear
So strong
It made you
stop
&
Turn
&
Run?

You’re running and hear
The heat
Whispering against your neck
Bleeding
Into your cheeks and the tips of your ears
Cherry stained
Anxiety
Cherries, red and fat and sickly sweet
Force themselves up your throat

You’re running in shoes
That aren’t meant for running
Down the sidewalk past the midnight hour
You make a biker stop and stare
He asks you something
But you’re too busy unzipping the air and
Flying
Through it
Trail of cherries behind you.

You’re running
Across the street
And you feel your hands fall off
And then come your toes
You lose an arm
And then it’s twin
Your whole torso
And hips
Left on the double yellow line
You’re just a head and legs
Cherries spilling like rubies
From your lips

You’re running
And running
and running
Until you only feel cherry seeds
On your tongue
Only seeds between your teeth
No more cherries
Your legs become red silk ribbon and you pick a tree as tall as heaven to
Collapse under.

You stopped running.
You wring the cherry juice out of your sweater
Lick it off your fingers,
Wipe it out of your eyes.
Your legs grow back into legs
And you collect your
pieces and parts
on the walk back.
Follow the trail of smushed squished cherries

You pick one up
put it in your mouth
Sour as battery acid
You swallow it whole
And go back to your essay
On rhetoric.

-spring sprung a leak, and there’s no stopping her
1
The amount in which deadly sins enter the blood stream. Waiting here as a glimpse of sunbeams dance over my bed and sigh the heaven sent.  Time. Whether or not there is a lot of it or I'm just fooling myself into it existing, it was there before. Hidden in a 12 by 24 box filled of hope and gone tomorrow's.  ******* in this fissure free of fiends and friends of the likes. Sorrow hidden in distant smiles.   Some tempest has taken me places, racked up miles on the car and replaced the tires.  And for what ? Everything. Love, adventure, camping smells , the sound of my tent unzipping to let the smoke out.  Wilderness - my favorite past time.  I feel I only stay in these boxes to rack up the gas money.  No wait.... That is all I do. With some food and money for the boxes themselves, and the water in between.  

2
Following the eventual departure from my box number one , to two and half , then  two out the door and down the stairs,slipping  on ice, balance, virtue, already is my day planned to feel something at the end of it.  There lies my sadness, in the expectation.  So sometimes when I wake up else where like box number Three , I do not expect anything. Usually run into somebody , or see them passing about their own life. And that is the beauty of the world to me.  Not expecting anything.  Hidden in your own thoughts of what everything is, before you go blind.  Morbid little ****.

3
"Except you dont love yourself" correction , why love anyone else? To tempt the hurting ? To feel the burns, things whispered in your ear, nails down your back.  No thank you.  Fade into the next days successfully, hating the anger , loving the silence. So why, girl who calls herself Mother Nature , did you impede in my technological romance , to get me unhooked from the faces stored in this memory book.  **** the collectors, and the blood suckers.  **** the night terrors of killing so many other evil men that you accidentally think I am holy   I am a tool of mans destruction
Doomed to never create beauty
Alive in a time of total war
I am living under eyes
The plot has thickened
I would rather wash the blood
Than let it stain me like this
What does it mean when I bleed
The same color that sprays
Hot metal twisting tearing flesh
Out of holes in my enemies?
They have me killing for progress
become holy.   **** the delusions.  *******.    

4
Death
The mortal
Coil , veil
Deceit
The only Release.
Salvation
A key.
Demise
Cunder

4.5
Clench myself awake
Decide if it was a dream

5
Decisions decisions decisions
My best friend reminded me
That every time I see her
I tell her how much I want to
Be in a band of trees. Screaming.
And last night was the first night
In which I could complain to her
About being where I want to be.

6
My friends
How they make me laugh
We drink
And never regret a thing
Oh the world
The ways it makes things seem
Sick of acting
But I'm not done with the big screen
Fill in the gaps
Sound of visual dramatic cadence
The way it will be
The many things I can reach
When all I want is one more chance
A corona, you forever , and a beach.

7
I try and muster thought
Its black and blue and it's where
The things that I forgot
And how to do them are
I stand here and there they are
Out of reach , but I still feel them.



"Tell me why? Tell me why is it hard to make arrangements
with yourself?" - Neil Young
victoria Jun 2014
do you remember when we use to play the nights away and find comfort in each others arms—now it's just a cold and desolate day with the sun set in my eyes and rays in my blood stream; and when i'm alone, i can still feel your eyes set on destruction as they stare me down into a little war path of lusted rage. it was you that held me when sweat matted my skin in drops of rain, when blood coated my lips in passionate ***; it was you that varnished my skin into the glass tiles when i rocked back and forth in the middle of my bath tub waiting for the ground to descend into nothingness.

and now it's you, that disbands my brain like an array of dying stars in the sky we once painted together with our trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. and now, it's me; it's me that stands in the middle of the street with blurry cars running by like angry lions in heat, fighting for the heat of the moment because they're too ******* stupid to eat their way through the decayed animals that are too far gone into the wilderness of disaster—and with their bones like melted clay in their stomachs, i stand in the middle of a highway with my hands thrown aside like a cape of darkness.

was it that your were too tired of spending contagious sad nights with me that you had to pack your stuff in a tiny suitcase that could barely fit the words I’m sorry into the brackets of their shoulders. maybe it was the way i scratched your back during steamy tales in between the sheets that scared away the words i love you from your mouth—or the way i had to pick up the pieces of the faulty mirror for you to even utter my name from your rocky eyes. i think it was the stitches in my marred bones that threw you off guard; they were too weak to carry your ego on felted silks because while you thought art was an object of disguise. i thought it was an object demanding to be felt through brittle streaks of dull colors.

it was when you shouted at my writings for feeling too much when i whispered that my words were messages in disguise because our feelings were too much to handle—and that’s when you broke the handle to the cracked, wooden door that held more blood than the inside of our hollow scar tissue. it was then when i realized that—

my fingers hurt from unbuttoning your skin, unzipping your veins into two split pieces of heated metal that slice my wrists open with uncertainty. it was the lines that the scars created that dismembered my wrists from my hands and clawed the nails off with broken bites of disintegrated love into my knuckles—when the cemented wall hit my fist with action-packed wrath of fervent wisps of outpoured whiskey into your mouth, into my breath, into your eyes, and into my clenching veins is when i knew the nights we spent were only tales of childish foreplay—heavy innuendos of vapid, misused paint on cracked paintbrushes and oil-based pens.

i’m tired too. i’m tired of my bleeding fingers used to scatter your drops of paint onto the pallet of my skin while i had to sew the seams of my veins into a cross so maybe I could find a way to God while my God was too busy fondling the idea of pain into my eyes. i’m tired of my oil-based pen handling my hand with sacred demons barking at the nails stuck in my brain while my brain fights for some sort of unasked forgiveness that i didn’t know i needed.

it was then that i realized that the milky ways in your troubled soul carried out the stars in my name—that’s what sold me the first night we met—only, i wish we hadn’t met.
Abel Araya Aug 2013
Drawing attention to oneself is the best illustration to show that you aren't present.
That you may not be transfigured into a rabid popsicle stick.
One day, I may not there for you
to catch all of your raindrops from this clouded season you call truth.
My bones aren't as strong as they used to be,
I'm far from what I once used to be,
and the world carries me around like I'm on its backpack,
unzipping it only to when it's told to do, because in these times,
It's easy to get your backpack stolen if you don't have a key to lock it with.

This world is cruel.
The American dream comes with a reality check made in China.
We hold flowers and bricks on our dying hands,
because as humble and enlightened beings that we are,
Death will not knock on my doorstep
with his scythe hooked across the inside of my gums
without me bashing its skull and stabbing him with his crossbones
Theodore Dreiser never had to walk through the skins of black children
whose lungs had been eaten by politically justified stray bullets,
so unless Sister Carrie is codename for pleasurable manners,
then this little song-and-dance **** list we call USA has gone AWOL.
The doors have risen from the ashes of media grave sites,
and have opened its pathway to those influenced by it.
Caitie Nov 2015
what have you done to me.
i let you undress me with your eyes,
slowly and reassuringly.
and then aggressively with your hands,
undoing the buttons on my shirt
and unzipping my jeans
nearly ripping the fabric right from under me.

pulling me across the bed
breathing heavily into my ear,
i'm remembering why
i ever called you mine in the first place.
we decorated these walls with our fingerprints
and they remain as memories of every time we've touched.

now why you?
is it your scent, is it your skin?
the way the marks you leave on my stomach
feel like you every time i touch them?
its you that i want, its you that keeps me here
when i should be with whom i claim to love.

when you were mine,
it was a perfect dream,
we ran through the war with not a scratch
not a dent in our skin.
we got out of the mess,
accompanying each other through the storm.

I should have let you sit in the driveway,
I should have never let you walk through the front door.
Why couldn't you have left me alone in this room
without your taunting glares
begging for the affection i crave so much.

I swore i wouldn't do this.
I swore i wouldn't kiss your neck again,
i swore i wouldn't make you want me.

but I gave in.
so here you are
once again.
you're lying on my bed,
and i'm on top of you.
Maria Feb 2014
She always held herself with the dignity of having a thousand masterpieces hanging from her lips but She never let me stand close enough to hear them
She was good at speaking from a safe distance like that

And as I stood with my toes curled over the edge of loving, she peered down the cliff and asked me if the fall was worth the raging waters
She tried to teach me the difference between love affair and romance, unzipping each word telling me  how some lies are still worth believing, when the truth is still to bitter to swallow whole.

She told me how the windchill can steal all the warmth right out of you, how it even leaves your mouth shivering and empty

I have written enough about it now to know you can see it in someones hands
I have written enough about it now to know you can taste it on someones words
And we stood there on that cliff until the whisper of dusk finally left our lips and my fingers began to turn blue

On the nights I woke up empty, she told me that the darkness swallows up light without even asking its name so don't you dare expect a roll call now. There is no welcome mat outside of 3am but we laid outside the door anyways and she let the sky paint me pictures

On the nights I woke up cold, she reminded me that hands are only as good as what you choose to hold on to, she always said there was some kind of art into weaving your hands into somebody else's. It was the one thing we agreed on.

She said I had a shimmer she couldnt trust just yet but on the night I couldn't read poetry she let me sit next her, she told me that the thing about people and metaphors is that we all need at little editing
and we could all use a little bit more work.
Arfah Afaqi Zia Aug 2015
Light shades,
Dark shades,
What am i to wear?

Lipstick, mascara,
Base and nail polish,
Mom in the back ground says, ' You're going to college.'

**** !
I need a new bag,
Also a liner by Mac.

Maybelline polishes,
All stacked,
So many colours,
But not black.

I need to apply Revlon,
As much as i can put on,
Making my lashes prominant.

5th Avenue, Still and Elizebeth Arden,
I want to wear them all,
' Oh no, i don't ' says my conscience,
But then again they're scents and my heart wants them.

Unzipping my wallet,
' No ', i have not much.
Making the puppy dog face,
' Mom ! Can i get money to buy a base ? '

She nodded.
' Also i want perfume, liner, mascara and a nail polish. '
She gives me a look.
' Go get your money and spend them on it.'

But i have no money,
I say,
She says,' Get a job and buy all of it.'
Like a baby i sob.

She ignores,
Looking all bored,
So she knows,
I'm acting emotional then why not scold
Madison Lee Nov 2014
I love the way you kiss me,
As your frigid hands caress my *******,
I yearn for your nakedness to be closely nestled.
Your voice is raspy and deep, yet calming and smooth;
"Let your guard down, I want to see all of you."
Honestly, I felt weak in my knees, hearing the truth.
The delicacy of your lips pressed against my body,
Makes me able to barely whisper, "I'm ready, baby."
Unzipping my jeans,
I hear them drop to the floor.
I can feel my airways grow tight,
While I'm spread open.
I need you to stay overnight.
daniela Mar 2015
i have had people say to me,
i don’t want to die,
i’m just not sure how interested
i am in being alive.
i have had people say to me,
i don’t want to die,
i just want to sleep and sleep
and never wake up.
i have had people say to to me,
i don’t want to die,
i just want to press pause.
i have held a lot of shaking hands,
begging them to drop
their knives and trying to
hold their wrists.
i have said the same things.
so i’m not saying
that i’m always better
and i don’t if you’d still call me
a good person
if you could see behind my eyelids
because sometimes i am terrified of
the demons lurking
in the corners of my own mind,
but then, if you got to see people inside out
with all the ugly and unseen
and we-don’t-talk-about-it
then maybe nobody would dare to
call each other good people.
and sometimes i don’t want to keep going;
there are days when we all feel
like the universe is pressing down
on top of our shoulders,
crushing our lungs.
but gravity's just doing its best, and so am i.
and even though sometimes it feels like
i’ve running on empty for the last thousand miles,
i’m fine, really, i’m fine.
most days i wake up
and i’m happy, most days i wake up
and i am not thinking about unzipping my veins.
i am thinking about
all the songs i haven’t heard yet,
all loves i haven’t loved yet,
all the poems i haven’t written yet,
and *******, i want to be alive so much
more than i ever wanted to die.
i swear, there is universe is out there waiting for you
if you’re willing to go out and find it.
the world won't wait for you
but it's always going to be there.
and i swear the darkness isn’t
too distracting,
i swear i can still see clearly.
happiness isn’t a destination
or a journey,
it’s a fistfight with sadness
and i want to keep getting back
in that ring even if i keep getting the ****
knocked out of me every single time.
getting better is uphill battle,
but at the top there is peace.
at the top there is reason.
at the top there just might be
what you’re looking for.
and maybe it’s stupid
but i believe it’s not all hurricanes,
and i believe it does get better.
i believe that twenty years from now
i will wake up and look at my beating heart
and be thankful i didn’t **** myself.
and i believe that you will be too.
i really do.  
and i’m not saying that there won’t be days
when getting out of bed feels like
scaling the grand canyon
and even tying your shoes feels impossible.  
it isn’t going to be an epiphany,
the universe shaking your shoulders
in its steady hands and telling you to
cheer the **** up, kid.
because sometimes the universe’s hands
are shaking just as bad as yours,
sometimes there is no reason for it.
it will be more like a gradual realization
that world can be ugly and cruel and brutal,
but that doesn’t mean that
there aren’t things out there
worth living for.
it’s not always easy to find
any ******* sunshine bright enough,
and sometimes i am so scared
i might die before
i find anything worth living for,
and i don’t always have a good enough
reason to get out of bed
in the morning, but i promise
that i’m looking for a better one.
i can’t give you a reason
but i hope you can learn to look, too.
i hope you can learn to look at the sunset
and see all the colors in the horizon,
a sky painted with temptation,
and not just see another day ending.
there’s a difference between
living and being alive,
and i hope you
stick around long enough
to get to know that
difference.
sometimes i still need this one. today ain't one of those days though.
rootsbudsflowers Jul 2016
She sends me snippets of her body in photographs. If I was meant to forget her then why would she torture me so? Her hands and her hair. Her eyes and neck and lips. So vivid in a glimpse, I can taste her. Not so innocent when she's unzipping her top in this shot. Not so sweet as she sends me her bare hips.
Photographs.
Are such.
A tease.
Why throw it out of it doesn't go bad?
Heather Butler Oct 2012
The day's works doing have been done;
the midnight caught in the eaves
the eve of morning is lingering in your breath:
Against my ears eyes flutter and there is no undoing,
there is no unbuttoning or unzipping of clothes.

The day is working doing and done;
there is a shaking in the leaves
as leave you move a lingering in your step:
And my heart lungs whisper soft lullabies like yesterdays,
there is no forgetting, or letting, or knotting.

There! fingers break and unravel and
Yet! still sitting on the patio she is having her think
fighting pigeons with stale bread;
stepping on fallen branches you snap like a twig.
To think! to behold! to fall!;
she is your tea leaves, she is your hollow tree;
she is your empty cup and broken knee;

she is your hello to strangers and your goodbye to friends;
she is, she is,...!

She is!
Sammi Yamashiro Apr 2021
The mid noon sky bleeds out; it bruises in flames.
Arsonists hold their gassers to my face.
In their grisly field of vision, I am a delectable
vapor, born to flit away.
Regard not the orange cones, nor the caution tapes:
these gates hold little significance to them.

(Then the other 'a-word' comes to mind: anarchists)

Prior to this, they had presented themselves
as chess pieces to fall in love with—little do they know,
I've an animus for them. As stupid as I may appear,
I know it's a game!

Unzipping out of incognito mode, they have unleashed
their razor blade. They whizz their wings.
Here they come, coming for me.

Here I go again: counting sheep,
blinking for one whole eternity.

Oh doctor! I'm in dire need of your vampiric syringe.
Swill my peaking adrenaline— at this rate, I'll go mad.
I shall never recuperate.

Mollify my entirety.
Teach me to rollick like angels do. I beg you.
Joanna Oz Sep 2016
palms sifting over
the slick curves
of your timepiece,
infinite kickbeat
tipped the hourglass twice,
time slides down you
away from me,
sandy monument dissolving
into memory,
hazy beach heat wavers between
all twenty fingers searching
pressing
feathering up swans from skin,
bare-lipped unzipping
wanders from ear
to chin,
to whispering grins on thighs
grinding stone to sighs,
silently rising
sharp rush
of breath
pinched
release, just stay
with
me
in
me
meaning, meet me in the middle
reach the runny yolk of it all, spilling silk, rushing out all over you
all over me.

we hum into each other -
ecstasy.
charlie Dec 2013
I never wanted to see you hurt,
never crying, never unzipping your skin.
And I've only seen one of the two.

I said I loved you the month after we met and I meant it.
Because when you fall in love you do it hard.
And I wanted to have that feeling,
Never underestimating the feeling in your gut,
And I was okay with hurting you. For I didnt intentionally.

The night you fell in love with her you told me you never wanted to touch her,
But you also never wanted to loose her.

The night you lost her you cried to the heavens praying she'd come back...
And I still see you do it from time to time.

When you fell in love again, she said she wanted to *******, and that you could be on top, and my god did that ruin everything.
She unzipped her skin in the shape of a y exposing herself to you, but not in the way she wanted.
You did not pray for anything this time.

I said I loved you in my room, when I was blackening my insides, when I heard you say I love you too.

You wrote your first poem about the girl you liked yesterday, and I screamed at you.
For it wasnt about me.
But I saw you pray for the first time in months,
And I never seond guessed who it was about.
It wasnt about me,
or her
It was for you.
Because your getting weaker and I can see it. Because whenever you speak you speak in thorns, your voice doesnt perk up with laughter and baby giggles as it did before.

And I saw you do unzip your skin for the final time.
daniela Jun 2016
summer in kansas is like being underwater,
humid and oppressive as our state’s current legislature.
our skin would get stuck together, when we pulled apart
it was like we were unzipping parts of ourselves.
painful.
there’s a metaphor in there,
somewhere, i swear.

some breakups are like surgery; removing a part of yourself,
coming out of the operating room and still leaving things on the table.

we spent a lot of time stuck together
then being pried apart by the air conditioner, among other things.
you make me feel like i have too many nerve endings
and not enough skin.
i think it must be a ******* talent to make someone feel like
too much and not enough at the same time.
we spent a lot of time driving with the windows down,
music filtering out of them
like we wanted people to know what we had stuck in our heads.  
you groan when i turn on 95.7 and whatever top 40 tune
dubbed the “song of the summer” comes on.
see, i kind of hate people who hate pop music
because honestly get the **** over yourself
and admit that taylor swift songs are catchy already
but i still like you.

so the speakers are blasting “fix you” by coldplay
and i’m wondering why songs that are written about things
i’ve never really experienced
are always the ones that make me cry.
my mom always says that i am the most empathetic person that she knows.
it always just makes me feel ashamed of all the times
i have felted shuttered,
judgmental and close-minded.

i am usually glad that people don’t know me like i know myself,
i’m afraid you wouldn’t like the inside of my head;
it’s not like i always do.
sometimes when i’m sad and my head feels foggy
and i want to unzip my veins
or something else ugly and over-romanticized like that,
i think that universe is trying to reject me
like a bad ***** transplant
like i was something never meant to be here in the first place
and it’s trying to right itself,
find equilibrium.
i know it’s not true but i still think it sometimes.

i think i love myself too much or not enough.
i am not good at equilibrium.

when you said, “i think i love you,” i thought you were joking.
i don’t know if that says more about me or you.

i’ve always been afraid
there is something terrible and fragile and hopeful
about young love that i will never get to know.

love is probably at least 70% proximity and i’m okay with that.
so you're kind of like my spleen,
i could survive without you
but it be pretty ****** to have you torn from of my ribcage.
because love is not completing a set,
it’s just finding something you really ******* wanna hold onto.

sometimes when you’re a poet you tend to idealize love into stanzas
instead of realizing that love is not poetry --
poetry makes too much sense.
love is a long-*** novel that you get bored of sometimes.
love sneaks up on you, it grows inside taking root like… honeysuckle.
an invasive species.

and honeysuckle are no roses, they’re prickly in a whole different way.
just the same,
nobody tells you that love can often be so ugly.
but a lot of kids still pick handfuls of weeds,
dandelions and clovers and grass stains,
and present them to their mothers
with a fistful of pride.

maybe love is not a victory march.
maybe love is just… the drive home.
Overwhelmed Jan 2012
the simplest
joy

is

unzipping your
shorts

spreading
out
your legs

and letting
out a warm, yellow
stream over a
cliff

— The End —