Maestro

You started it this time.

You, with your pre-kiss,

lingering breath.

Breath. 

Your huffs of air against

my teeth was softer

than the kiss that followed,

almost making me forget:

you aren’t supposed to kiss me

like that.. like you wanted me more

than in that moment. 

You brought my breathing 

to a crescendo then ceased. 

You like it when I want

to push you from pure desire.

You made me have 

to straddle you. You made me

push it to the point 

where you just let go, maybe

so you don’t feel as guilty.

You said,

"Shut the fuck up"

and kissed me

because when I speak,

you fall in love. 

So you kissed me, 

touched me, conducted

my body like an orchestra, 

then dropped the wand. 

Ode Assignment

To The Moon

Oh incandescent incubator of human wonder,

Illuminating the evening with light that is not yours,

You deceive us. We think not of your Stoicism,

But of your enchanting presence through our slumber,

When marvelous marbled craters are mere pores.

Yet you hover distantly avoiding cataclysm,

Remaining barren, except for rocks astronauts plunder.

Oh, how the waves do your bidding! Falling and rising,

like notes in a sonata, you compose a tidal feat.

Your power extends to us too, for we are beings of water,

Your pale light nourishing our souls, synthesizing.

Man always needs something bigger than him to meet

At death. You were a goddess once, great Jupiter’s daughter.

Though your status has fallen, you’re forever tantalizing.

I do not know why we ceased your deification,

for you shall remain long after man’s obliteration.

Blank Verse Experimentation

Weeping Willow

The weeping willow bends by natures choice.

It bows, not breaks, with burdens flowing down.

Such beauty, power, and pain it transfers like

a mirror capturing our deepest truths.

A man has not the trunk that’s strong enough

to bare this constant kind of suffering.

Our spines, aligned, they strive to meet the sun.

Our gaze is forward, pushing gloom beside.

Yet people, we ignore the lovely mud.

The willow knows not grief, but gratitude.   

My cheesy sonnet (they are supposed to be cheesy don’t judge)

My only love, I’ve lost his voice, his scent—

As well his silhouette, and oh, his touch. 

But worst, his morning kiss, its taste I clutch.

These thoughts so close and yet so far he went.

With countless poems I drown in my lament

As he, abroad, comingles with the Dutch

Escaping pain so he won’t feel too much,

But I will take it tied to me, cement.  

So now I vow that this shall be the last

Of poems, a drone he made of me these years

He thieved.  He breathed while I was tense.

With heed I need his part no more.  I cast

Him out with doubt but know redemption steers.

With this I lose my muse to common sense.  

hatebug:

おっぱい (Oppai), a unique japanese word that describes the feeling of waiting for someone that you know that won’t come back

(Source: planet8)

Stella

Her smile, now withers, dying right/ before your eyes can blink./ Remember lips and not her bite,/ though barges they could sink.

So grim, so slim, she waits for night./ Oh stars, they crash, just think,/ leaving without a care or fight,/ she paints her lips in pink.

Steep

me, a messy bag of leaves

veiled in a meshy membrane-

you, a scalding transparent

pool of reflective ripples.

I steeped myself into you.

I altered your composition.

Couplet Assignment

Couplets

The air is sweetened by your energy.

You buzz and carry me away from night.

A freshening feeling comes over me;

Electrify my spirit, make me bright.

Not Only

are you under

my skin, but you’re swimming

laps within the canals of

my brain.  

An infestation of feelings,

has made me raid the quiet

corners of my body with

poisonous thoughts and 

tragic realism.  

You’re a fungus under my fingernails.

Invasive, unwanted, and turning

me the shade of green

I never wanted to be:

toxic sludge eating through

the grass which once

nourished me.

embersalamander:

From Springhole.net [x] [x]

Food-Colored Skin

Not only is purple prose obnoxious; sometimes it’s downright racist. For some reason, writers have a fondness for describing dark complexions as “chocolate” or somesuch.

But wait, people like chocolate! What’s so bad…