as the world moves onwithout me.
GoldlustIt's more than a wantit's a need.The way you cravethe lust on your chestheavy with aphrodisiaand amber dew.Seems a small price to payfor this temptationeach coupling stainingthe thread barefabric of youralready withering soul.It's easy to seeyou couldn't care lesshow he deals with the knowledgethat you'd do anything at allto posses the sun.
LillithShe'll tempt you with wordssweet and crisplike the wine that teasedand drugged yousleepy.She'll try to convince youit's only moonlight in her veinsand that curious sensationhas nothing to do with yourinnocence.And all the while you're wrappedin a world she created,never noticing how shehides your soulbehind the glint in her eyesas you gaze captivatedinto the face of sin.
Writer's BlockForgive meif I donttickle your fancywith a lyricor two.I seem to havemisplaced myenvelopes of anecdotes& the bedtime storyjust isnt feelingup to par.You seemy memoriesrely on thatfaulty camera in my mind& the lens is fogged withchampagne dreamsmaking it quite the struggleto impart my witticisms.Not to mention thatI simply dont care.
DistantDid you regret iteach and every timeyou opened you mouthand laid on thickthe fire-cozy reassurancesof your affection? You never once looked me in the eye when you said it.I should have knowneach time youprofessed yourlovethan you were onlystrengtheningthefoundationfor that brick wallyou were so insistenton having around you.Its all so clear nowhow my optimismstrained to seeover the stones while mynaiveteprovided the mortar between them.Of courseHindsight is alwaystwenty-twenty.
ObservationI like tolay in theafterglowof your love& watch thewayyoumove&& I wonder if you'reawareof how I'm counting.each. .little. .thing.that you do& the waythey make me smilelikeChristmas morning.
WantShe lovedthe way his handsmoved likesunsetshadows over her skinand the sweet musicof his breath drewachingpatterns on thecanvas of herdesirebringing taut satin nervesinto therude awakening ofpassion.
BikiniIts a perfectly clear day and yet |thickchokingfogclosesmythroat|that suffocating anxiety which plagues us allat one time or anotherstillI take the riskSoft cotton glides over my skin tingling caressingeach nerve ending.The cloth slides away and my ears pick up asudden intake of breath.From behind my shades my eyes flickerGaging reactionsDisecting the quirk in their lipsThe gleam in their eyes and I feelexposed.And as the sun beats down upon my skinI realise. I am beautiful.
TemptingWhen Im driving at nightand the music stops just long enoughfor me to hear theheartbeat|in between breath and coherent thought|a curious thoughtslides through my lipsto be savored with caution.If I just keep driving,where will I see the dawn?
DenialShe'll swear UP down and diagonalthe love that used to close her throatandblind her to all others isg o n e .It eloped with herstarry-eyed innocencewhen the tide washed awayall the promises he wrotein thes a n dAcceptance is not an optioneven though hischarming deceitstill |chokes| her reasonand thatpuppetmasters grinslides like v e l v e t over her skin. (Because you and I both know involuntary reactions rarely go a
PrayerPlace your poemson the lips of angelsso you can teach their wingshow it feels to flyalways upward.Mark the summer eveningssoon to comewith the gracethat carried youamong us,warm and cherished softlyand know we will always placeyour wordsamong the stars.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happyTo leave their home for her newest installation pieceShe cried sometimes for no reason other thanShe felt like having a good cryHer house was covered in her students’ drawingsShe said the best art was produced from innocenceShe went mad once, and painted canvas after canvasIn furious strokes of blackThe soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew oldPeople shook their heads when they saw herAnd whispered “poor dear” under their breathBut she was never poorHer love for everything and everyone never diedIt was swept in all directions like a summer breezeMaking people smile without knowing whyBut the river rocks know
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
Photo-NegativeA weightless pause, the warmth between seconds.“You need to feel something other than me”, and the way you said it-Like the gazelle asking the lion not to chase her,and many similes much worse than that. and many smiles more cancerous than that.and everything I say you say I say- it’s all farm grade bullshit.Starting here, I begin to correct myself, control myself,before the words lose their beauty by taking on far too many meanings.I’ve cleverly described this enough times already: ants besieging a gone sparrow,the death rattle of an air-conditioner as the summer heat takes it,three boys swimming in a pond and only one survives their childhood.I’ve described this enough times to know that I’ve exhausted it of figurative substance.All that’s left is the picked clean husk of what it has always been; bitterness.Sometimes, less words are needed to define.
Mastering MeIn another universe, I have green eyes, curly hair,and paint smeared across all my fingers--a war cry of artistryinstead of needlepoint scars.The pooch of my bellyand the lumps in my thighsmight be from anything elsebut the insulin I inject four times a day.I grow up a child, not a parent,the master of my destinynot running away but running toward;I'm a little bit tallerin spirit and stature,in all the ways that matterwhen darkness creeps under the doorand phantoms howl.I shave my legs every dayinstead of once every monthonce every three monthsonce every only now and again when I feel like itand I'm confident--a goddess with the stars around her neckinstead of pearls--in any type of heel.In another universe,I still trust myself behind the wheel of a car;I have mastered winged eyelinerand smokey lids;I gave up chocolateor caffeineor whatever it isthat brings on migrainesjust because I could,just because it's better for me,just because.
VulnerableWhenthe night sky shedsit's cover to air outstars by thet h o u s a n d sI can't help butfearthat I amlostin spacedisoriented &&out-of-controlas the world moves onwithout me.