"wagging" poems
Seems like
Words are failing
Maybe We should use our mouths
For other things
How about kissing?
Right there
On that part of my naval
As I brush your hair
Maybe I'll let out a little sigh
As you linger there for a while
Look up and smile
Pretty eyes got me gazing
Words may be failing but
There's other ways to speak
Your hands gently trailing
got my body feeling Weak
Self control startin to slip
Better watch my mouth
As I bite your lip
It stings
But not the way words do
No need for censorship
This mouths being used for other things
Maybe to let out a laugh,a little grin
As you make your move
To help me relax and
Leave your mark on my skin
Raising the heat
Got me craving!
Tongues may be wagging
In the morning
But ours are for tasting
So what do you say?
Mmm don't speak.
My hearts racing
Legs shaking
As you play your mouth piece
Sighhhh
And I
Might just have to pull you in tight
Might just have to have you all night
But don't worry
It's our lil secret, I won't say a thing
Words may have failed us
But mouths don't need words
To do wonderous things
;)
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
No no no, this isn’t one of those commendable confessional rants of redounded reality.
We all know where that goes and what it leads to.
This rhetoric comprises solely of the faulty intuitive comprehension and the ******** behaviour people have while under the influence of the poor man’s ****
That could be mistaken for a typo.
Xeno-meph, would be what aliens are called if they did this too.
Extended warranty of your sinus cavity is a must.
And a mouth guard so you don’t churn away at the capricious calcium that are your teeth.
Smoke and dance till lungs and legs collapse.
Talk like you’re the spokesperson for an oil company that’s pillaging life and land.
Change your personality in a minute and become the ****** you always wanted to be.
That smart talking, **** wagging, ***** licking, *** ******* back stabbing, self serving, worthless piece of **** is now you, but it doesn’t feel like that to you.
Rational ******** your only reprieve.
Keep doing the same things over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again hoping the outcome will change.
But you’re cool.
You’ve done this before, it’s solvable.
A break. That’s all there’s to it.
The itch in your nose has stopped. Your jaw doesn’t hurt.
You don’t feel like **** but you know somehow that something is amiss.
Things are not what they seem. Sense doesn’t make itself.
The dark is your sanctum. Fast is your peace.
That’s not a typo.
The world cannot slow down for you.
You have to speed up. Another gram, another line, another lie.
Control is what you say it is.
Handles are what your stomach has.
Fast forward a few months and you don’t have a handle on anything.
You don’t feel down, you feel fine. Nothing’s wrong
But just another fall, and you’re straight out of line.
Justify! Justify! Justify!
Listen, keep listening… Talk! keep talking!
Everything makes sense. Everything is a sense.
The difference is that I’m faster, quicker, sharper.
I’m handicapped.
Leverage is my mind, broken and blind.
I wish that was a typo.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
You have a cute little nose
And happy wagging tail
You lick me when I come home
You bark because there's mail
You sleep in my bed
And think my shoe is a toy
Sweet little puppy
You fill me with joy
Oh, little puppy
So loyal and true
I just want you to know
How much I love you !
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Listening ears don't come easy
Most come with mouths harbouring wagging tongues
Pouncing on the chance to retell your story
Exploiting your need to empty acrid lungs
Listening ears, they're indeed very rare
Unidentifiable no matter how well you know
Lurking behind a mask of concern and care
Sweet words employed so your cards you'd show
Listening ears could be just a myth
An idiom to quench the thirst to confide
Listening ears sometimes come with fangs for teeth
Hungering and lusting for your trust and pride
Listening ear, oh why you come with a mouth so foul
Why the cunning trickery and unscrupulous deceit
Kindness as bait, when in fact you prowl
Many none the wiser until they are bit
Listening ear, in you I gave my trust
I bared my innermost and gave my all
Hoped that you'd soothe my ailing crust
Instead you lifted me high only to watch me fall
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
i am your pet, cherished, you bet
from the very first moment, we met
you are my master, tried and true
my job in life is to always, please you
i wander aimlessly alone
when you're gone, so long, on your own
forgive me, if i chew your shoe
i was nervous and i missed you
if i snack some food from the trash
it smelled so good, how could i pass
bark, bark, bark, i cry out alarm
the mailman has come here to harm
when you get home, i'm so happy
wagging my tail with my whole body
when we go for a walk together
if a cat threatens, away i chase her
don't be upset with me, please sir
i promise to protect you from all danger
i greet other dogs, on our way
smelling their butts to just say, hey
i lift my leg marking my place
to find my way back, just in case
i'm not too crazy about the rain
but i'll keep you company and not complain
laying belly up is a sign
scratch me, rub me and i'll be fine
if I lick my area, because i can
please don't be jealous of me, man
sleeping here, my chin on your foot
obediently, my faith in you, i put
though my purpose, i may reach in a flash
compared to your life, my longevity won't last
my loyalty to you, will never sever
unconditionally, i love you, forever
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Wet nose, four paws, and a wagging tail
follow right beside me on an uncharted trail.
We're exploring, but just what for?
National treasure or maybe folklore?
He doesn't know and neither do I.
On a day like this we don't need to ask why.
I stop for a break and he looks right at me.
"C'mon Dev. Let's make it snappy."
I can't disappoint those big brown eyes.
He never complains, frowns, or tells lies.
His only intention is to insure I'm happy.
So I stand back up and give him a patting.
We march on in search of who knows.
Through the highest highs and the lowest lows,
There is always an adventure just around the bend.
He's not only a puppy - he's my hairy best friend.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
Shhh...can you hear me?
I'm hardly a pin
I'm hardly a mile away
Shhh...do you know the pain I'm in?
Look...can you see me?
I'm hiding behind shadowed eyes
And a mask of smiles
Look...will you look past the honest lies?
Taste...can you palate the bitterness?
Sharp and acrid accusations
Dancing on wagging tongues
Taste...will you swallow what is given?
Touch...can you feel my failing muscles?
Every fibre losing this very battle
A futile fight I must concede
Touch...will you save the pieces that crumble?
Read...can you make sense of my heart?
Pounding behind its bony cage
Pumping red into my desperate nib
Read...can you understand the ink staining my page?
Shhh...can you hear me?
I don't think you can
For I have ceased to speak
In the universe of man
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
The light pollution
from the lives of little people
in the big city
reflects off the lowriding clouds,
the same way my knees reflect
in the little puddles
from the big rains.
It hurts my eyes to look up
without sunglasses,
hurts my lips to think of tasting
the subway oil that
drip
drip
drips
I speculate at the transformers,
part automatic, part people
in their pre-ripped jeans,
learning to get their Ns
to drive themselves away,
yarn trailing from their sweaters
like parade float streamers.
Citizens run so fast
to catch the early train home,
freefalling down the stairs
breathing in the exhales
of the other racer’s exhaust.
Marking their triumphs
with participation ribbons.
The pacific pants at toes,
a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves.
Impatient for attention,
waves wagging back and forth,
up the imitation river,
past the downtown.
Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots.
The geese are on hiatus
until they can take back the city.
Making the drains overflow,
creating their own habitat,
they’ll strut their haughty markings,
distinguished from orcas,
away from any saline nonsense.
Were we to retrain the population
to turn blind eyes,
we’d be much more efficient,
stop wasting time contending
to society’s obsession
with documenting itself.
But then, what would we do all day?
Creating light pollution
must give immediate gratification.
Once all the lights are turned off,
the influence won’t continue,
creating a lack of permanence,
making our need to be remembered
seem trivial indeed.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Trash can, wastebasket;
the place we throw it all away.
Used tissues--soggy mascara, dried *****
or the babies that would never be,
and the heaps of food waste, human waste.
Wasted human.
Why do we take ourselves and the people we used to love,
toss people and our person deep within a hole of shame,
darkness, misery, guilt, worry, frustration, fear?
If someone only said to you, or to me, when we dig deep
into the ground and find the place no one will find us
or them, the people we are burying--
if they only said,
"You are not trash."
Our emotions refuse to become refuse, the remains of
being unwanted, as we perceive ourselves to be.
But we is just me, and even though I can't hear the voice
I long to hear above my own, the sounds reverberate in my chest,
next to my heart, where I heard them last.
The last time we spoke your fingers did not reach for mine.
Your jeans did not rip in the same one spot.
The dog that I picked that you picked after you went back,
his tail wagging all the way on the ride back to his new home,
did not kiss my face and my eyes and ears like he loves to do.
Even though you didn't still love me, you did before,
now thrown hastily, yet decidedly in the trash can outside your door.
I dropped off the last remnant of your physical being,
an old rabbit-eared antennae.
I didn't, couldn't look in your trash can,
or stand in the driveway longer than was needed to drop and run
the hell away from crumbling gravel, a window newly aluminum foiled, and the motorcycle kept under surveillance at all times.
I hope he looked on his camera screen and saw walking,
talking, feeling, breathing human trash gliding
down the sidewalk, feet pattering into a jog.
The grass licked my feet and tangled in my toes on the way
to the one place my sighs could sink lower than my feet,
deep into the warm upholstery of my car seat, the grandma car,
the dented, imperfect, but mostly reliable car
away, far away, to a place where someone would look curiously,
pick up the trash, my trash, me, and say,
"It's beautiful."
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
I'm your personal superhero
Who fights crime each day
I patrol outside and watch the house
While you are away
I'll cheer you up when the day is grey
Get you up, and out to play
When days get mundane, lonely too
I'll be there to be with you
I may not wear a cape or tights
But I will still help fight your fights
If you're in trouble and lose you way
I'm made to guide, to wait, to stay
Then when the sun has gone down
I'll make sure you never frown
'cuz I'm your personal superhero ---
Your ever fluffy, one of a kind,
loyal and tail wagging dog
2010
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the ****
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
5.5k
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
Wander of a Summer's night whilst swimming in the energy of neighborhood folk playing at the park in a bathe of warm dusk air,
Nightfall blankets the chatter and laughter of friends a like with whistles fluttering off thy breath to the tune of their pitter patter against the mat of green grass all perfectly groomed...
For soccer matches and picnics, plus the occasional BBQs or to this present moment an evening dog walk, tails wagging.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
It's dark outside except for the pale glow of a fingernail moon sailing through the starry sea of night.
The wind has tucked itself to sleep with the birds, weary of bustling about and playing with my hair.
The whippet snuffles his way along the rabbit trails, delighted with this late night walk, white tail wagging in the air.
I wander down by the edge of the swamp, grass all soft and dewy 'neath my feet and spy the pallid uoow reflected upside down,
between the reeds along the creek.
The constant, shrilling chorus of frogs and crickets drills my ears yet I find it strangely soothing - a well known voice across the years.
I turn to walk back, whistling the dog and notice in the low fields, the usual ethereal fog begin to form.
I look up at the dark shape of the house and see light from my
kitchen window painting squares upon the lawn.
Amphibean bodies seek the brightness, bellies pressed against the glass and if you warm them with your finger on the other side, they move.
My man and I bet kisses on whose frog would move the most - one of those silly games you play when you're in love.
As I close the door behind me, grabbing logs to feed the fire, the dog flops down upon the hearthrug letting warmth dry swampy mire.
I make cocoa in my blue mug then pull down the kitchen blind - cutting off the froggy light source - abruptly silencing the choir.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:42 AM UTC
Remember when
We took a daycation?
Waterfalls
For days.
Milk bottle
Sepia vinyl.
Ice cream and
Truck drivers.
Ballerina buns and
Bare necks.
Waterfalls
For days.
Oblivion, the
Falling leaves.
Backseat
Views.
Gravel paths, we
Walked.
Waterfalls
For days.
Blue, blue
Skies.
Crystal
Springs.
Damp red
Leaves.
Waterfalls
For days.
Apples
Were just in season.
Photos
Wagging tails.
Honey tea
Quilted snuggles.
Waterfalls
For days.
Maybe it was
Just a dream.
Next thing
I knew.
I was throwing
A textbook at the wall.
Waterfalls
For days.
I was
Okay.
I swear, for
One day.
I was
Myself again.
Waterfalls
For days.
Remember when
We took a daycation?
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air
wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind
like finding a papaya inside an oyster
battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing
around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ******
Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight
as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels
of bourbon.
Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling
and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters
with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread.
Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes
winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper
into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs.
The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl
turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
I am alive and I am terrified.
Why does the future have to be
this question mark, this puddle of murkiness
wagging its finger to beg you to come
closer,
closer
closer.
Darkness lurches above me in
halos circling brightly, making no sense
I can see you, Future
I can see everything I want to see
but the waters won’t clear, the question mark
won’t turn into an exclamation point,
and you make me travel down the path
farther
farther
farther
into the unknown.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
"And the older I get, the more I'm sure
That more by itself never was a cure
Some days I've got nothing to show for except
Walking the dog and walking the floor"
Mary Chapin Carpenter
<><><>
*it's been twenty years plus
who can remember exact,
the last time I had a full-time four-legged
companion to share my bed, greet my head with
wagging tail, and joy incessantly, overflowing and drowning me
with face lickings and hugs of a topsy turvy twisty body,
and smiles and curdling yowls of deep throated
cries of obvious joy and the
first thing I'll do when the nectar of next
life's staging begins to commence will be me to get
such a dog as heretofore I remember as an unadulterated purest joy,
I'll still walk the floor,
long walks, yup, outdoors, early morn,
and late afternoon day settling setting endings,
dog and me, freshly bathed, settling in to watch
some British crime and ****** mysteries sleuthed and
solved by folks I'll never meet, but whose company enjoyed
over the distance of an atlantic sea and about seven feet,
and maybe dog curls up next to me, by my pillowed
head, or between my happy to snuggle legs,
don't matter much, dog & me,
will discuss an alternating
rotation satisfying our
mutuality,
and even when I still walk the floor, which be a task for evermore,
he can walk beside me if he chooses, cause choice is
what's it all about*
with a true companion
nml
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
God smelled something foul
in the garden & thinking the
man had discovered manure,
god came down & found Adam
fast asleep w/ **** all over his face;
What have u been eating? shouted
the Lord, shaking the trees;
Adam awakened startled,
seeing god's fury: have u eaten
of the Tree of the Knowledge
of Good & Evil?
No! Lord, no! cried Adam,
It was the woman! she made
chocolate lava cake & I ate it,
whined the trembling
creature, face to the ground in
fear & awe; god walking
away shaking his head & saying,
put some clothes on, *******
what are clothes? called Adam;
god sitting down on a rock to
think things over was only mildly
surprised when Eve, bare skin
ethereal as summer rain came
& sat beside him; not exactly what u
had in mind, is he? she asked,
wrinkling her freckled pug nose;
nope, not at all, said god, but it's alright;
my kid's a carpenter; I'll get him down
here to patch things up; Eve stood
abruptly to her feet, heatedly wagging
pert ****** ***** A carpenter!
she hollered; well, I hope he learned
carpentry in medical school, she sniped,
marching into the brush & returning w/
a bowl of fresh fruit: hungry? she said;
| I could eat - - oh-ho-o! so,
u're the smart one!
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Spring is in the air and so is married love;
For marriage is a gift from up above.
Holy wedlock offers one unending joy
Which all the sands of time will ne'er alloy:
Once you're married both of you are free
To get stuck into some adultery.
From now on each new fornication
Will have an extra-marital relation.
So go and get your neighbours' tongues a-wagging:
With some adulterous randy ******** ********
*Ah! que j'aime une nuitée chaude de fornication
(tellement, tellement mieux que la ************
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
Somehow I ended up poor,
Ended as mere dream my world tour
Fancy cribs, fast cars, model wife
Dinner with kings and good life --
Just me and my ****** ol' guitar
Needless to say, it's out of tune.
Oh! I have a dog - wagging its tail
Go to sleep, june
Tonight, no midnight tale
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
I’m tired of loving like a dog—
all wide-eyed loyalty, waiting,
tail wagging for a love that lingers
just out of reach.
Tired of chasing footsteps
that never turn back,
of curling at your feet
only to be kicked away.
I fetch your affection,
drop it at your feet,
but you throw it further
each time.
I was born with teeth,
with a growl in my throat,
yet I soften myself
to fit in your hands.
No more.
Let me love like the wind—
wild, unchained,
touching only those
who welcome the storm.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 1:22 PM UTC
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**•let my secrets be buried unknown•
never to resurface, never again shown•one
mistake was all it took...•invested my heart
in an unassumin- g crook•that was
enough to set m- y world on fire•
fuel for wagging to- ngues' desires•days
only elapsed with l- eers from disgusted
eyes and whispere- d mocks•time was
inconsequential o- n faceless clocks•
a hard lesson lea- rnt, painful price
to pay•now i have my secrets heavily pad-
locked... and the key thrown away•
••••••••••••••••••••••••**
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Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC