"withdrawing" poems
Pain is inevitable,
Suffering is optional.
The crossroads of success,
Is always constructional.
If we could become tress,
Solid and stoic, deep rooted
In Mother Earth's flesh;
We could stand firm
Through the tempest, unswayed.
But we are only humans.
Covered in darkness.
Hiding behind our fears,
Timidly withdrawing from
The ominous tempest.
So, embrace the fury,
The daunting gales that
Once were scary.
After all, you can't
Stop the waves,
But you can learn to surf.
And even if you sank,
Deeper into the void,
At least you'll drown
Knowing there was
Beauty In The Struggle.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
Abbreviations of the Life Human
these little stories, bejeweled poeticals, long tall tales,
short-held breaths from the savings account breast,
all slow withdrawing-dawning,
all are but the abbreviations of the life human
my fav of course,
the one, the twenty six
the aleph best bet
<•>
4-16-18 10:47pm
a mondo Monday survivors prayer
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
Moored to the same ring:
The hour, the darkness and I,
Our compasses hooded like falcons.
Now the memory of you comes aching in
With a wash of broken bits which never left port
In which once we planned voyages,
They come knocking like hearts asking:
What departures on this tide?
Breath of land, warm breath,
You tighten the cold around the navel,
Though all shores but the first have been foreign,
And the first was not home until left behind.
Our choice is ours but we have not made it,
Containing as it does, our destination
Circled with loss as with coral, and
A destination only until attained.
I have left you my hope to remember me by,
Though now there is little resemblance.
At this moment I could believe in no change,
The mast perpetually
Vacillating between the same constellations,
The night never withdrawing its dark virtue
>From the harbor shaped as a heart,
The sea pulsing as a heart,
The sky vaulted as a heart,
Where I know the light will shatter like a cry
Above a discovery:
"Emptiness.
Emptiness! Look!"
Look. This is the morning.
8.4k
so don't change then
you seem to be perfectly comfortable
in your insanity.
wrestling, withdrawing,
anhedonia coming alive in your party
master wrangler of sorrow,
been there, done that.
and like watching
the christians and the lions,
i am rooting for you
but know you will shed blood.
and when you are devoured enough
you come to life,
crazy sonafabitch.
stay where you are then,
forget em happy pills.
i will go certifiable with you
as long as you do not forget
the lunacy of our love.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:55 PM UTC
My friend asks, “Do you never get tired of your sadness?”
I do.
Everyday is a battle I face, struggling to keep myself alive, trying to find reasons to not **** myself but all I can find are reasons why I’m better off dead.
She says, “Why don’t you try doing things that makes you happy?”
I wish it was that easy to do the things I enjoy (read: used to enjoy) doing but it’s hard when you can’t even get yourself out of the bed in the morning, wishing you would just stop existing instead because that seems like the only probable solution to your problem.
It’s hard to be happy when you’re being constantly reminded just how much of a **** you are, all the negative thoughts eating you alive. The feeling of emptiness clawing its way through your throat and making its presence known but god knows you don’t want it — never even asked for it in the first place.
I’m tired of being sad all the time. I’m tired of always being tired, locking myself in my room and withdrawing myself from any forms of social interaction because the thing is I don’t have enough energy to talk to anyone today, please leave me alone.
These days I’ve been feeling numb. I try to do things to make myself feel something — or anything at all, but all that I am is numb and empty. It’s like nothing will ever bring me happiness or sorrow. I feel like there’s nothing that will ever make me feel something again.
My friend says, “You know I’m here for you, right?” but she never remembers to check up on me on days I feel like darkness is the only thing to keep me company, the weight of living taking its toll on me. She never remembers to ask me how I’m doing on days where I feel like death is the only solution to my depression.
It’s hard to stay alive when you can’t seem to find any reasons to live at all.
—l.a.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 6:29 AM UTC
I live in a world
Where we pet deer with cars
So we set our emotions in jars
The cops drive with broken headlights
And nobody knows what's right
Yet we're not allowed to fuss
Because we're on a prison bus
So I dream of the days
I'll get to see the freeway
You got in my car
That didn't go far
You decided to call a taxi
Because I was so taxing
I got under your skin like a cyst
And I became your taxidermist
You jumped in my town car
That became a clown car
You made me feel like a star
And then left me on Mars
Where I lived out the back of my hearse
Patiently waiting for a compatible nurse
I found myself in an ambulance
Withdrawing from all your medicine
I couldn't get out of the trance
Your bulldozer left me embedded in
After being rolled in the muck
I became a monster truck
I wish you were a convertible
So I could at least get a nibble
For you handle a road of ugliness with grace
It's the same daunting road I cowardly face
We just can't travel together
That's how we'll travel forever
I just wish you could know
The places my car will go
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
And thus when the sun would rise, it should be determined;
I had lost, failed to wipe out the transience of a dreams miracle,
Leaning back as the stars fade one after another in the brightening sky
I find myself smiling, at the disappearing sight of the lunar rabbit after the moon too had sunken down to rest without a single cloud having witnessed it, the heavens remain only filled with great light.
While everyone rejoyed with a big smile to the morning which welcomes them to be again, hard working and productive, I can't help it but to feel sad, having to accept my destiny of never breaking free.
The fleeting time passes aimlessly, only for me to have faint courage,
Glooming, one would even embrace the darkness which befalls the world at a time which ceases to let even crystal starlight seep through,
This is where the dreams created in the world of fantasy are born,
That's a repeated story, they bloom, scatter then fall, recycling again.
Shining and withdrawing itself, there is always my presence in a dream, so dance in the dark night my beloved servant, have we really lost if I do not fade away and perish ~ ? Yes, we have, sadly enough.
Yet I should engage ourselves with the solance;
I don't have to die in a dream.
~ Umi
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
Hung up on a Sunday with a strung-up savior
Hanging from a cross across the hall
Pleading that a deity annul her misbehavior-
Her previous activities, forestall.
Hung up on the hunger pains, insatiable and gnawing
Knowing well the vigor of the squall
Hung up on a strung up stranger, rendezvous withdrawing
Waiting on the King of Kings to call.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 4:00 AM UTC
****** into my sofa,
The infinite space of it.
The faces of my friends are melting off,
Like heated wax running down a candle stick.
I loaded the universe into a gun,
And I shot myself in the head.
I can not tell if I am breathing.
Am I alive or am I dead?
I’m strapped to the outside of a rocket ship with nothing in the way.
I’m taking off, and I just keep going. Reaching a height higher than heaven.
There’s nothing to orient myself. No time. No space. No self. Nothing but darkness stretching out all around me.
A roar of a million voices are screaming over each other, they’re resonating in my head.
I’ve come into orbit. Everything is beginning to crystalize.
Surrounding me are complex geometrical patterns of love and understanding.
Gibberish wall textures are whispering messages through their feelings.
This is all too much to take in,
It is like the universe orgasmed into my eye.
I just want to go home,
I think I am going to die.
A sense of calm echoes through me,
Probably brought upon by the faces of my long lost family.
They have so much dimension to them,
So beautiful, light and shimmering.
Looking like something out of religious doctrine,
They came out from the open.
Released me into my primal light laser body,
Everybody has been laughing at the joke never spoke.
And now that I get it,
It is infinitely funny.
It is like the sand man blew his sand,
Taking me on a train to dream land.
They are showing me everything,
I can not even begin to understand.
How am I supposed to understand infinity,
When I can barely understand a single moment.
I see God in a head of lettuce.
I feel the earth's rotation,
As I spin around the sun.
God handed me the universe loaded into a revolver,
And fired me into a flashing rainbow shower.
Friday's smoke opera has rendered me dumb.
Bathing in a melting rainbow,
The cosmos is dripping down my skin.
Infinity is stretching out,
And withdrawing within.
I become the colour,
And the colour becomes me.
I am in everything,
And everything is in me.
Coming out of the woodsmen's cloud,
I hear a child screaming out.
I didn't know what it was then,
But now I know what it is about.
The trees are no longer silhouettes,
My destination is not my goal.
I am in the middle,
Wherever I go.
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 5:45 PM UTC
she said the rain reminded her of Paris
can almost hear the cafe's and distant lovers laugh
can almost feel Paris 'neath my feet
she is Paris in my mind
Paris in the rain...
melancholy on her face with that distant heartfelt...
the rain slips away
she said she wanted to walk in the garden
in summer bloom
linger there by shady tree...
rest herself on the wooden bench framed in sunshine
her perfume lingers on the trail
of her soft footsteps
a seductive path to her secret heart
she says she is compelled to ask
but the silence follows her words...
her long white dress
reflecting beautifully in the summer air
her long white dress
once reflecting enticing moment at a time
she hums the tune to that song
the one she so loved in Paris
the one that played on that night of joys
the one that she held him so much
not me not me not me
she is Paris in my mind
Paris in the rain...
I am withdrawing from the beautiful image of her
without moving she is getting farther and farther away
no more Paris in the rain for me
no more song for me
she will always be that Paris in the rain
Paris in the rain
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
"Can't take my eyes off yours"
not withdrawing their gaze
wordlessly he and she muse
without batting an eyelid
"Ḧer eyes are a shade of blue rarely seen ever"
he thinks, before words could charm her
she finds this" Ÿou've the eyes of a girl,
every girl that dates you, I am sure
would note it first" Isn't she right?
Öne girl knows another's heart better
then, do men stand a chance?" he wonders
"But there is a soft wave beating in the depth,
of those eyes" she softly confides
Ït arrests me, can't take my eyes off
..is it kindness or love, or both?"
a welling within happens, he was debating just that,
but how, just how does she know it?
"Ẅhat would you take first ?' he puts it back
" If I offer you both?"
she smiles saying "I know what"
Close by they sit, heat permeates
from thigh to thigh, isn't it nice?" eyes probe
"Let that beam of light I see, fall straight
in to my eyes, let's burn together"
He shuts his eyes and remember
the camphor lights, soft on eyes
and oil lamps on temple walls,
flames that dance like hooded serpents
he feels the heat of her swelled up lips,
fitful bees hovering above his mouth.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
I should apologize for the days I am withdrawn. This is not what you signed up for. I should apologize for when I don't want to speak or communicate with touch or when I want to be without you but also do not. My indecisiveness is appalling: and I should apologize for that. But today I do not want words. I do not want to be felt because I feel you grabbing and pulling instead of caressing and comforting. You have not done anything wrong. I am just mean. I am just inside myself today and when you want to know what is up I want you to accept that I say the sky instead of pressing for more. My thoughts are poison right now. You shake me like a magic eight ball and I keep thinking try again later but saying not likely. I have the capacity to be kind but my words are pinpricks in your chest and every time I claw you with my numbness I inwardly cringe because I don't mean it, I am sorry, and I should apologize. But I can't. I can not bring myself to vocalize that I am not okay because you'll want to help and I don't want to be okay. Not yet. I want to hide in my closet and cry without company. I want time to myself today. But I don't want to hurt you. I am sorry. You are no burden. I am withdrawing. Not from you, but from me. I don't want to be kind, or resilient, or strong today. I just want to fold into myself, I want to be small and insignificant. I am tired of being fun and happy, it's tiring work. I need time to be low without an interrogation. I just want to be empty for a moment. And I should apologize.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
It's the week of Giving
Thanks, and I'm thinking
Of the magical place of
My Dreams, the
Dream-state I existed
In my childhood.
Google maps is SCI-
Finite, and does this place
Justice like a squid
Quoting Revelation 1:
9 - the Island of Palmos.
But at least the squid
Was half-right -
Middle Park Lagoon
Had an island.
It wasn't just the little farm
Pond full of alligator snappers,
And indelible fish (carp, anagram:
Crap)
It was the surrounding woods,
The Leopard Frogs I could not
(And really didn't want to)
Catch. It wasn't the shoe-
Stealing muck-mud, the
Barely-4-foot deep water.
It wasn't Duck Creek flowing
Next door, flooding often,
Its waters spilling into the
Waters of the Lagoon, depositing
And withdrawing wildlife
At will.
It was my escape-pod in the
Mysterious Spaceship Earth
That was 1968-1984, for my Dad
Ed Scheck, was Supt. of Parks
And Rec in Bettendorf, Iowa.
He oversaw all the parks, the
Pre-Waterslide-Pool, the Bike
Trails connecting Davenport
To its bro/sis city.
My Dad had to work a lot
And me in the park was like
Me visiting Dad.
The Lagoon frozen when we
Had Iowa winter, and a very
Popular place to skate. I think
I loved the Lagoon more frozen
Than liquid. At night, I would
Cut through the houses on
Fair Meadows Drive, listening to
KSTT-AM blasting on the speaker
Attached to the light pole.
It was the scariest part of my day,
That little freezing trip from
Lagoon to Home.
And about the best.
In 1979, at sixteen, I applied
For employment with the
Parks Department, and that
Meant summers working at
Palmer Hills Golf Course.
And, winters, supervising
Middle Park Lagoon.
I got to skate out on the
Ice, the ice that would turn
To the watery body I loved
Most of all, and miss, to
This day.
From 1968 (5) to 1984.
The math doesn't add up;
Magic has no columns that
Add up at the bottom, because
Magic is bottomless.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
~Enter~
Everything injected
Identity constricted
Breaths restricted
Fights enlisted
Words explicit
Pain inflicted
~Exit~
Withdrawing addiction
Half of me missing
Shaking commencing
Cold sweats kick in
Heartbeats lessening
Death's threatening
~Return~
Suffocation retired
Individuality aspired
Stimulation inspired
Culmination transpired
Life long love desired
Exact dosage is required
~Anchored~
© Tina Thompson
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
I'm withdrawing.
Running and hiding.
You'll see in time that it's for the best.
I'm at a standstill while time is constantly moving forward
Forward moving.
I can't pretend.
I need to stop before I'm in over my head.
I'd rather embrace the feeling of wanting to be dead.
The end is always inevitable.
I don't want to wait to find out.
I'm ending this here.
I'm ending this now.
I need a drink, but instead I'm gonna take a couple sleeping pills and drift into the abyss.
Far from words that sting egos.
Far from hands of time.
That only keep people at arms length
Safe from harm.
Safe harbor.
Safe haven.
Safe camp.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC
"Little lass with the pink parasol,
standing by the sea
where your face was forgotten
and your dress dirtied,
what can you tell me of the wind?
Have you noticed its paws
tugging at your parasol
and how it dances 'round your tip-toes
and freezes your eyelids
with icicle pins?
How it shields your drinking sight
from sunlight
by raising a blind of your hair?
Or
have you instead chosen to count the peaks on the waves?
How each pinch in the watery fabric
pistons up and down
in the oceanic mattress
with the nature sporadic
of a mad stellar twinkling.
What treasures belch age and air bubbles
under the surface
of a fingertip's breadth?
Of such sweet gems and precious metal
surely are the gifts of its deepest depths daring.
It has been counting the times you've dipped your nose under,
under fear of the fathom's fingers
finding your face to be pretty,
and withdrawing.
You'll catch cold, lass.
Standing by the sea so often; always.
At the least you will go mad
at the infinite sound of roaring laps
against the shore
and the gales born of sea and sky
scrubbing memories of stillness from your mind.
Little lass with the pink parasol,
what do you hope to find
standing here by thesea?"
I asked her.
She was silent.
And I heard every word her own,
though uttered tangibly
by winds of local overcast atmospheres.
In the wet soil 'neath my tarred heels
did a coolness rise,
finding my lungs dry and welcoming.
The horizon joined grey and blue
and she was eyeing the vanishing point.
My eyes joined hers in trek
and I found infinity.
Nothing was visible along the skyline.
Meaning anything was beyond it.
Nothing was visible beneath the tide.
Meaning anything was under it.
The wind suggested transparency
but a secretless wind is merely still air.
She said nothing
and I understood;
the sea seems larger
when you are close enough to be kissed by the waves
because you forget that the whole world is behind you.
I am right now
standing by the sea.
The little lass with the pink parasol.
She is here, too.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Life's Predispositions
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
red, yellow, green
and blue.
He sits in there,
a chapel for one,
in a mist
of confusion,
in a mess,
searching for answers,
as his life is waning,
escaping,
like an Autumn wind
blowing the pages of his life
... stillness,
of bookmarks,
still on page one,
he hatched, once.
All around him,
dark,
and cold,
like a winter chill,
snow banks withdrawing,
his sad existence.
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
large,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
another rainbow stretching
it's arcs for him.
He backs away.
He bemoans life,
small,
it's endowments on him.
His parent's mistake
on a dark, eerie
loveless night...
and their cutting words
"You were a mistake,"
words
that grew on him,
like barnacles
clinging to him,
eating away his buoyancy,
like a ship sinking.
In the birth of another spring,
flowers blossoms,
rivers gushing down
mountains and mountains
of pollination,
life,
he has a lone branch
waiting ... somewhere.
Such stillness.
Such stigmatization
from his parents
loveless past.
A mistake they conceded.
It had an effect on him,
darker than the blackest sheep
that he was.
What predispositions.
When the summer harvests
arrive,
fields smiling their wares,
he scowled
he scowled the corn,
subsistence,
life,
the changing seasons,
his short change
of life.
Rainbows.
Why are the birds
singing to me?
Why?
The voices
in his head
chirping,
continuing.
What message thou
bring to an orphan?
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
His eyes squint.
Dad, mom.
And whispers words
that don't need
to be said,
closure.
Logan Robertson
6/01/17
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
Is the occultist aware she’s daring,
That she carries the shadiest orifice?
No.
She just defecates and scars remain.
Akin to the likes of an unmarketable comedian:
passion on one side, narcissism on the other.
‘Twas unforeseen.
Enemies working together,
Exchanging callous banknotes.
No one had foreseen this.
Eventually, she’ll *******
from depositing and withdrawing.
But no one knows.
No one can ever know.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
Sitting here, thinking about death, about which death to choose, about which passing of time to write about. I am sweating, like, hold your breath or die sweat. It is hot here, but it isn't the temperature that is making my glands leak, it is the memories, it is the death grip that takes my heart when i remember, when i write about life leaving, silence stealing from the night.
Heroine. She's a tuff-tender ***** with soft sleepy skin, the daughter of Morpheus, who takes your breath and holds it inside you. Somniferous, She likes to sit alongside you while you die, she holds your hand and whispers in your ear, allaying fear and slowly she wraps her fingers around your lungs. So tired, of this world, of this life; you think, i'll just close my eyes, nothing new about being on the nod, nothing strange about this tiredness that follows a quick projectile puke in the gutter.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Writing about Overdosing. It is a strange thing, a quick story, one minute your blinking, nodding, often murmuring, then asleep.
Lucky the dog who runs in a pack.
Lucky the man who walks with strangers by his side.
I don't remember much of what happened before i closed my eyes.
A shot, pin ***** relief, then, quickly/slowly/gone. It is night out, with a dark and steady sky, I am watching the stars through slitted eyes and loving my life, loving my wife; ****** how she makes my heart sing. I am glad to be far from withdrawing, i am happy to be in sin with my lovers, stainless steel turemo picks.
It is my first blast for the night and apparently my last.
There is no warning, no red flag that appears in my minds eye. Just silence and a world fading away. A heartbeat disappearing. Short shallow breath and a small niggling concern that soon will come the time when i am not high then...
I am going. I am gone. I have died.
The strangest thing about dying is not dying. The hardest thing about it all is waking up and realising you were finally gone, you were finally done with the rigmorale, the procedure, of living, of life. You had reached the ultimate goodbye. And now you are back. Still high but not high enough to be faced with the living. Narcan gives your lungs back, it breathes back into you what She stole away. Wanting more then ever to ***** but not wanting to puke on the paramedics lap. Fear of police and reprisal, anxiety soars high on the agenda of the recently revived. A trip the hospital, a free ride, then signing out early, i have shots to blast, a past to wipe out, a life to live or die trying.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
Nursing my secret longings
I lie awake in the wee hours of the night
Mind restless, like a caged bird, craving redemption
My thoughts journeying through time and space
I recognize a thousand appetites
Still waiting to be appeased!
Sadly there isn’t time enough
To realize what I really crave.
It is in the stillness of the night
When sleep deserts the eyes
That mind derails its track
And wanders like an aimless vagabond
Though rooted firmly on the ground
At times, I feel, I lose my bearings
How I longed to paint my sky
In garish colors and shades!
I wonder if the scales of my life’s balance
Lean more to gains or losses now!
There was a time when hope ruled the roost
And I heard love’s soft whispers all around!
Now I am unable to precisely tell
What my mind craves and pines
But this much I know for certain
I am becoming worn and old
Years have so quickly skipped past me
With youth and beauty sapped away
Leaving life an exhausted well
With the dregs remaining at the bottom
My eyesight has waned, the earlier lustre gone
My once supple knees have started to creak
And the muscles, begun to sag
I feel as vulnerable as a foetus in the womb
Pain grows with years
As a smudge deepens into an erasable stain
I am no wizard to call back all that have left
But listen to their ‘long, melancholy, withdrawing roar’
No more springing steps
And a fast fading cortex
Still I stretch myself
To catch at Hope, winging away!
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
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Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
The Last Meeting
I dreamt the dream again
It repeats
Always the same
Built on borrowed uncertainty
An uncompromising battle within me
It shakes the very core of me
Lingers for days within
Then Draws out through my mouth
Opening doors to feelings
I'd rather stayed hidden
I'll be at the same meeting
It's years since it happened
The intensity burned
My insides ached
His icy stare penetrated
My heart
As I was leaving
My insides started screaming
As he was not following
This brought our last meeting
The last
During the night I used to watch him
Constantly breathing
The steady rise and fall of his chest
I needed this certainty
As the moon that shared all my nights
With clenched fist and warm soft breath
Reassuring me for now
He was alive
The steady rise and fall of his chest
I had become his mistress
His other lover insisted
Keeping her talons in him
So he kept on descending
Into the furrows of the unknown
A place I could not follow
A place I would not go
I fought her for years
Then finally gave up my fears
I walked away in tears
This brought our last meeting
The last
I was standing
He was staring
The taxi waiting
Tears started spraying
My heart near to breaking
Me needing
A fresh start
This form of addiction is far from forgiving
My love had equipped it from the start
Now I keep dreaming
Of the last meeting
The one that shattered my thoughts
We are both staring
The north wind is blowing
On the sun heated sidewalk
The ******
Withdrawing from his blood
The scales are weighing
Between her and me
He has mistaken
Her love from the start
He started turning
My mind started reeling
My hands started shaking
As he kept on walking
So I keep dreaming
Of the last meeting
The one
That shattered my heart
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
My alter ego,
Thomas, seems to have the same problem I do.
He's in the hospital withdrawing from alcohol, and also has politicians
taking refuge under his bed.
The lice in Donald's Trump's hair
have demanded rice for breakfast
and it's 4:00 in the afternoon.
Bernie Sanders is under their clamoring free medical care for everybody, but every time I put the nurses light on and tell them what's going on they say no one's under the bed. I think they're in on it. If this doesn't stop the doctors will think I'm crazy, but we know who the crazy ones are. Right?
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 11:49 AM UTC
the pornographic nature of poetry
freaks my head with images and wordplay
i adore it so
like a lover i cannot stop feasting on
my lips caress each syllable like **********
my heart rushes like the first glimpse of her face
thunders in my chest like each stanza in my hearts mind
the pornographic nature of poetry
silken smooth and sweaty
hard against the pen
pushing it forward fast
slowly withdrawing
each breath is a vow of love everlasting
each sentence is a heartbeat
feel it so strong
swift and sweet
the pornographic nature of poetry
i wake in dawns light
with it on my lips
a taste of the words so tender
a rushing of the soul to find the very center of my lovers heart
feel it in the brush strokes of the pen
as it scrabbles across the neat lines of the page
thrusting ever forward to the perfection
to the true expression
to the words that my lover smiles for
the pornographic nature of poetry
lurid and sweet
nurturing and deep
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
We own a pond;
mottled bluebottle,
flecked in freckles
when the sunlight
skims the surface
between the moss.
I dip a finger inside
and stir. A nebula
swills, swirling like
a whisk of spilt oil
from a water spot
sometimes found
underneath a car.
My fist plunges in,
embalming a gulp;
moss bandages
around the orb that,
withdrawing in drips,
I see a new world
set alight upon it.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC