Streams run in rivulets
into the moist crevices
of her blemished skin
trickleling through the
down her naked sides
while tiny droplets
of clarity continue to flow
through the valleys as she
sit quietly under the heavy
rain from silver springs
cleansing her past anxieties
drenching her in bliss
Streams run in rivulets
When I took my first hit of you
I never knew it’d be like this
that giddy head buzz taking me to a happy place
while it kills me from the inside
not around and I feel deprived
you’re killing me slowly
but I’ll disregard this
because I need a vice right now
so you can be the cancer in my lungs
the reason I can’t breathe
you’ll be in everything that hurts
pulling me down into an ocean of smoke and
my blackened lungs will fill with you
but metaphorically I’ve already drowned
I will write meaningless poems about you
my nonexistent emotions will fill blank pages
the invisible feelings will choke on the ink stained paper
disgorging emptiness becoming an extension of who I am.
but, my words still pour onto the page unwilling to stop for anything
a storm of letters against the hard white surface
which crash violently into one another
ending in a pile of bad clichés and broken pencil tips
solely because I can’t allow myself
to write meaningful poems
In a group of strangers his hands are the most familiar while
spinning, fumbling, tumbling around until
his lips begin to eradicate the faint taste of a man once
held so close to my heart but now as he inches forward
as his drunken eyes lay solely on mine
I can’t help but let him play a while he
pulls me in close to lift the bruises from my neck
tracing the path of familiar lips
hiked by the others who reeked of cigarettes and cheap vodka
a feeling too much like home
Le moment ou le soleil ce met au lit
et quand les oiseaux cesse de chanter
se trouve à être les moments de difficulté.
C’est les moments telles comme celles-ci ou je me fait taquiner
avec les visions, des souvenir.
Je remarque parfois des ressemblances
ou des dissemblances,
qui me fait pensé a vous.
Je me fait agacer par votre sourire,
par votre voix,
par la simple façon dont vous vous tenez dans le monde.
C’est lorsque le soleil ce cache que les blessures et cicatrices se rendent à la surface
et c’est lorsque les oiseaux termine à chanter
que l’écho tourmenté de ta voix commence à résonner dans mon esprit,
bondit contre mes os et prend refuge dans mon cœur.
(Gave this a shot. My grammar is rough, and I sound whiny, but it’s not awful I don’t think……IDK sorry english followers xo)
That could be very good or very bad though.
If my eyes could burn my thoughts into the walls,
I’d have murals burned into the ceiling from the hours spent staring up and thinking of you at 3am.
Tears swelling behind the dam of my heart
still strong to Mother Nature’s abuse,
but fractured by years and
cracked by hands.
when my dam-of-a-heart is attacked,
beat down and broken,
when it floods this town with woe,
I swear, I swear,
I would find your prints branded on the
handle of a hammer.
It’s not on my mind,
but not a single pillow rests next to mine.
From a wedding to party to funeral line,
it’s the “Sorrys” and “Thank yous”
those half empty sighs.
Haunted by things that could have been
or the things that should have been
but I guess if they should have been,
then they would have been.
Taking pleasure in pain,
slowly driven insane
from these hearts overstrained.
Not a fan of commitment,
just love is just fine
it’s not you it’s me
Take the feelings you pine,
run away and leave
when I’m bitter and old, confined
to the frame of one once so sublime.
has the worst withdrawals.
They leave you feeling
completely empty and alone
until you get
the next hit.
Shaking in anticipation,
preparing for the next fix.
Face forward, inhale.
Hear your heart race through my head.
the collision creates a moment of pure ecstasy
in my addict body.
Pressed in close
to confuse your heartbeat
and the motion of your lungs.
The worst withdrawls,
but the best high.