none of these re at all good, or revised, but i'm just enjoying the challenge of making myself write a poem a day.some days it's more challenging than others...and it definitely shows in the quality...
1
i want you to push and slide.
i'll slip and pull.
no roses, just the thorns.
nails on the back of hands
tongue tip in the shell of the ear.
no love letters, just gasps.
marks where the circulation
stops. it's simple. just start.
no dinners, just midnight mix-ups.
damp crevices. hands wrapped
tight. hard teeth on soft skin.
no poetry, just instinct.
3
you're like a forest
after rainfall.
that heady smell of wet
leaves, rotting vegetation.
everything is messy, damp.
soil sticks to the skin,
crystal drops glint on spider webs.
in dark holes, creatures hide.
rain has made the soft moss
as dangerous as the rocks.
slipping, sliding though
the trees. the air is silent and humid
between the towering trunks.
anyone could get lost in here.
i am getting lost in you.
*
you smell like wet soil.
around you, i am stripped
of artificiality.
basic instinct rules.
you taste like rainwater.
i dream about
the pink cave of your mouth.
your lips are always
finding a way to find mine.
you feel like a rose petal.
my fingertips slip down
the dark soft path leading
into your waistband.
you are a secret garden.
inside your walls you grow
as you wish, nothing stops you.
hidden, you are free.
4
Hotel rooms are canvases.
We painted ours with misguided
Love and angry tears.
Tense days turned into exploding
Nights, the white pillow cases
Turned black, the cheap china lay
In pretty pieces on the worn carpet.
And I think you were the one
Who said it first but I was
The one who left in the end,
New room. New canvas.
6
She is nothing but a collage
of thoughts and ideas someone
else had a long time ago.
She is nothing but a reflection
of the books she scans, of the things
she read on bathroom walls,
the words still printed on her palm.
Sometimes she lies so still
she can hear the ice melting
in the glass beside her bed.
The soft crackle as the hard edges
disappear and become part of the whole.
When she forgets to look in the mirror
she spends the day with mascara-bruises
around her eyes. She could have been a writer
or a cellist, she has fingers that weave magic.
But she lost herself somewhere,
she disappeared into the whole.
8
There we were, held by the winter night,
sitting on the steps, in between there
and here and there was silence
everywhere, not even the purr
of a car, just the sound of nothing
and the streetlights were more fire
than light, the darkness glowed bright.
There was nothing to mark the moment
out as you raised a cigarette to your lips,
the smell of them like burnt raisins,
no lightening bolt or arrow struck me
nothing to warn me except maybe the orange light
of your cigarette, but very suddenly,
in the middle of the silence, as you tipped your head
back to exhale, i fell in love with you
and there was no going back then,
so i stood up and started walking towards home.
Gender:
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