Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mwah

Layering lip gloss,

daring him to do his worst,

playful,

I pretend that I am blind,

to the desires that bind him to me,

as if I cannot hear,

what his hands scream.

I ask him,

with one glance of my eyes,

to the lust in his lap,

what his plans are for tonight,

and then,

I am snatched into a sensual storm.

He rains.

He rages.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Casablanca

In the darkened hours,

lost in fever dreams,

orchestrating affectionate insanity,

volcanic vulnerability,

expecting the worst,

yet I still jump,

over the edge,

unleashing the words I swallow,

because I’m afraid you won’t like how they taste.

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Under the bright lights you bring to my life,

tempted to stay,

in the fantasy we create.

Am I going mad?

Maybe I am just new to being needed,

sleeping in the shadow of my growing heart,

oblivious to how fast I fall.

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Shaking as I wake and remember,

counting twinflowers as I wait for you to arrive,

always impatient, impossible,

racing past my past to keep up with who I want to be,

everything I think we can be,

dreaming with tentative hope.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Twenty Four Hours

Twenty four times,

you bite your tongue,

and think of mine.

Your body betrays your mind,

as you wake,

your lap springs to life,

your rest interrupted by your impulses,

racing,

restless,

you waste time,

trying to escape your yearning mind.

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Twenty four trips,

to the shops,

to the shed,

to wherever you can be alone,

with your thoughts,

and your bitter, bitten breakdowns.

Silently screaming,

as you strip yourself down,

wondering why everyone wants you,

and all of your value,

but nobody needs you,

when you’re alone,

stripped and screaming.

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Twenty four trials,

where you hold the hardship inside your head,

stepping in puddles of pain,

that become seas of sorrow,

taking each sad boy hour,

a minute at a time,

trying not to drown,

as you paint perfection onto your face,

pretending you are a picture perfect partner,

but your make up aches down your distressed,

downtrodden face,

and when you’re finally at my door,

I see you,

as you are,

but I love you all the same.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Completely

Say it isn’t so,

say you haven’t figured me out,

ah,

you utter bastard,

you know all about me,

weaving through my wayward games,

to pin me down,

playfully pushing me out of my comfort cavern,

until I am uncomfortable with how comfortable I am with you.

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You ask me if I want to live my life alive,

or if I’m happy playing dead.

I said something vague,

and your eyes hit the sky,

holding me so tight,

I worry I will meld with you,

completely.

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We take our days,

like you used took your drugs,

it’s enough for me,

that you said I keep you clean,

meaning so much,

makes my wings itch,

but I am desperate to see a new face in the mirror,

one who doesn’t need to impress you,

one who has grown past my need to flee the scene,

when life gets too good.

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This is the part where it’s different.

There will be days where it’s different.

Like, maybe life really is you make it,

and I’m stronger when weak for you.


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Posted in Blog

Mmm Whatcha’ Say

Your children are asleep.

She is away.

I have awoken,

somewhere in your secret daydreams,

delicately dangling my legs,

over the side of a candy floss bed,

pulling a pillow close to my chest,

to concoct a coy and charming image,

inconvenient but irresistible,

for your consumption and distraction.

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You watch your flock,

wondering if they know.

Glaring down at the golden band,

that judges you from your dishonest finger.

You know,

truly,

where your guilt grows from,

how it multiplies,

as you miss someone you shouldn’t even know.

You watch your life’s work,

lined up in a row,

taking shallow breaths,

as they travel through adventure after adventure,

in their resting imaginations.

You find it hard to resist your own imagination,

fighting off your fantasies,

to fulfil your need to be a watchful wolf,

to your flock of sleeping sheep.

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You ask the blankets to watch your heart,

heading to your private palace,

dresser dancing up against the door,

as you surrender to your sheets for a second,

suffocating your salacity,

demons dancing over your scarlet cheeks.

You call me.

I can barely hear your invitation,

over the ragged breaths,

but I will arrive,

as always,

from your fantasies,

to your front door.



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