Wednesday, March 29, 2017

You Make Me Crazy

So fucking crazy. Just the thought of you makes me sweat. You stand to close to me. You touch me too much. You touch me for too long. God. I just want to turn and look up into those pools of chocolate you call eyes and tip my lips up to yours. I want to close my eyes and feel your soft full lips ease down onto mine. Hesitant. Then meaningful. I want your big hands to burn their way around my waist and pull me in. One on my back, one on my ass. Pulling, desperate. I want it to slide down the back of my thigh and behind my knee, pulling up, pulling me in, bringing my aching wet need closer to the hard evidence of your desire.

I want to gasp into your mouth and hear your answer. I want to reach up and pull your face closer to mine. Your lips slide down my mouth, nip my chin. You tongue flicks out along the path of my beating pulse and laves across my collar bone. Your whispered appreciation a symphony in my ears. Your hand moves up my hip, lightly, tracing, questing, finding my aching breast. Your warm palm covers my tender nipple, rubbing slowly through my thin blouse.

Arching, aching, needing you, inside. Clothes move, barriers removed. Hot ready flesh meets wet needy slit. Gently, excruciatingly, slowly. Deeper into me, deeper, I need you deeper. Slow rhythms to start, learning. Whispered pleas for more. Bruising fingers grasping, pulling, straining. Lips melding into murmured wants. Desire rising, higher. Silencing squeals of crescendo. Breaking tidal waves of completion wash over us. You burst, hot, deep, liquid pulsing inside of me.

Gentle. So softly you ease me down. Back to my own feet. I open my eyes and….
It was never you. All of it in my mind. All of it in the split second after you walk past me. All of it a memory of nothing. You don’t even know. And here I sit, sweaty, aching to the beat of my heart.

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Tuesday, March 7, 2017

WHAT IS POETRY?

Written for Nashoba, Because she inspires me to be better than I am.

WHAT IS POETRY?

Poetry is
A river of words flowing down

A Mountain of ideas built upon

The Bedrock of emotion that is moved by

Shockwaves of physical turmoil that are

The Soul reaching for

A Grander thing than itself.

Poetry is
A Grander thing than itself,

The Soul reaching for

Shockwaves of physical turmoil that are

The Bedrock of emotion that is moved by

A Mountain of ideas built upon

A river of words flowing down

Poetry is A Mountain of ideas
Poetry is A river of words
Poetry is The Bedrock of emotion
Poetry is Shockwaves of physical turmoil
Poetry is A Grander thing than itself
Poetry is The Soul


Poetry is

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Monday, July 29, 2013

Enough

I am not always secure and confident.
I am not always 100% sure that I am doing the right thing.

More often than not I am worried that I going to fuck it up beyond all belief.

I have never been enough for anyone.
I am always lacking something. 

I give everything that I am and want to get the same back.
That NEVER happens

I want to be someone's world. I want to be the first thing they think of  in the morning.
I want to be the person they masturbate to.
I want to be the light in their eye.

I don't want to be the part time joy in someone's full time life.
I want to be enough.

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Friday, February 8, 2013

It Weeps

A new piece... I haven't written in a long time. I find that deep emotional turmoil brings out the artistry. This is and isn't poetry... its a weird cross between poetry and prose. the grammar is awful and disjointed but it makes it feel correct. 


Head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration. A brief exchange with you. A friendly smile, graceful walk. A humble attitude. The epitome of business professional. Every discussion laced with sincerity and kindness. A feeling of open honesty.

But look closer… look into the windows. The friendly smile stops at the lips. The eyes, they’re hollow. If you allowed yourself to peer deeper. If you opened yourself up to truth. You would see it. You would  swallow it. Instinct tells you to avert your eyes. Your animal self trembles at the nearness of it. You tell yourself nothing and ignore it all.

Behind the bars of politeness, in a cage of civility. It rages. Screaming, weeping, choking on every word. Every hug is a greedy hook jabbed deep into flesh. Every handshake a tightening strangle on it. Every sincere apology is a jagged shard of glass digging deeper into it’s very soul.

It knows. It knows that all is a stage. That the masks are only semi-permanent. It knows that one day you will strike it. It knows that one day you will show your true beast. It rages and comforts in the cage. Inside it is protected and suffocated. It yearns for freedom and fears the repercussions. It wants to walk in the sunlight but is terrified of the burn. It reaches for light and shrinks from warmth.

What is true? What is false? How can it know the difference? How can it understand when you speak a truthful lie at every moment. You mean it when you say you care, but if you looked. If you allowed yourself to peer deeper. If you opened yourself up to truth. You would see it. You would be swallowed by it. Instinct tells you to avert your eyes. You would see your beast inside its cage and you would know.

You would know that your true intent is to unleash yours upon the world. You would know that you lie at every turn. You would know that in truth you are the cruel and hated master who would kick and lash and tear the flesh asunder.

And it knows your beast. It has seen those stripes on the flesh of others. It weeps with knowing. Knowing that you would devour its weakness. Knowing that its truth is shameful. Knowing that never will it step into the light and be loved. It is hideous and scarred. Grotesque by any measure. And it weeps.

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Friday, March 11, 2011

A New Road

After years of wandering aimlessly without a muse I have come into the presence of one who has awakened a sleeping heart. I have been shown that there is still hope and still goodness in the world. I was handed a mirror and forced to see the beautiful person that I am and to learn to love her all over again. I will be forever grateful to the Muse who inspired this poem.

A New Road
Alone I was left to wander
broken and mismatched
What I saw made me ponder
Had the gate been latched?

Would there, could there ever be
in all the world 'round
Someone to view the real me,
To find what could be found?

Was it in them to enjoy
that which I most love
There is no deceit to employ
I am the same below and above

I thought hope was close to lost
and the towel was ready to throw
My heart was growing a frost
my light was losing its glow

A light

not mine

steady bright

beautiful shine

Walked right into my way
And with a smile so sweet
Blew the dust away
gave me a tender treat

Showed me that the inside counts
and to be strange was good
Gave my step a bold new bounce
and led me through the wood

on the journey I came to learn
That I was just as bright
That What could heal had a burn
And was losing its own light

together we found a way
to learn it over again
That its best to enjoy today
And seize now, not when

The first few steps are taken
the road before unseen
the loose bits have been shaken
and the new slate is clean

Where we go from here
is still to be sought
But I travel without fear
For I am brighter than I thought

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