xcyberthiefx

I copied them from the photos in sensuality_art community

 

*I always love feedback/critiques/suggestions. Thanks for readings

Flower Heads and Grain

We were conceived
as vulnerable spindles

w/ ballet eyes

made of metal & glass.

In a palm or on a femur,
sleep is a pulley.

We revise:

Rest
is not gained.

We hit the pummel horse
like street drummers.

Tribal rhymes.

In the kitchen sun,
apples melting in a pot,
silver whisk
& crank.

In a cabin
w/ Henry, pen
& lantern.

We leave behind
ink fingerprints

smudgeclouds on the
tabletops.

We are the undeniable

walking through
phonetic arches while

Whitman continues
to heal Newark.
We prove & define.

______________
http://thebroadset.blogspot.com/
http://twitter.com/Broadset

Somewhere in the back of my mind I can see a young girl trying to break free of the cage that's kept her trapped for as long as she can remember. Tears are rolling down her face; she can't see the exit because of all of the redness in her eyes. When will it end? Will it end? The torture is too great for her to handle. She can't speak, but she can see; when she isn't seeing, she's hearing. What she hears is unpleasant and not worth repeating aloud to anyone, anywhere, at any time. More stress, more hardship. She hates it. She wants to let go, but she wants to hang on. There is the trap.

hold my hand dear i'm
getting wet feet and
i know it has been
awhile, quite awhile
but you make me want to
feel the way i used to
feel all over again.

Title: Observing, My Dear Sir
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes
Genre: Portrait; Pencil
Rating: PG
Medium: Graphite drawing; retouched in Photoshop Elements 5.0
Disclaimer: This is a transformative work of art based on Guy Ritchie's adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories.

I watch my love melt into the cold air
of the night, I sit upon the frozen ground.
My attention turns to the glare
of the moon and I wonder.
I wonder if those are stars or satellites.
Will I ever know what's real or fake?
Only when I can touch and feel
the realness it portrays. I now lay back and imagine.
To be a wise chief on this land,
my pipe I have carved with my story-filled hands,
I casually taste the sweetest smoke
and look to the same sky,
and in that moment, I know, that this is all real.
That this is all beauty, and all mine.
But that is only the past.
Ashes fall onto the creases of my pants,
and I understand, that nothing beautiful
has the strength to stand up for itself and last.
So I finish, my love returns and repairs me.
she runs her fingers through my hair
and kisses me goodnight.
She warms me more than the sunshine.
She helps me dream of satellites
floating, forgotten in the atmosphere.

shipwrecked decks and lost souls...
everything you had ever hoped
for and more... this is the final score
you know you wanted it to end as much as I did.

clouds, raindrops, snow, hail, rainbows
the course of that realization was short and quick
ripped off like a band-aid
yet I'm the one bleeding on the floor
while you've licked your wounds and danced on some more.

bitter? why of course I am.

I sit here in silence
wondering what happened to us.

Round two.

leave me (arti)choke hearted.

does that even make sense? second disappointment of the year.

"but you can grow flowers from where dirt used to be."

The hallow of my ankles were encased in skin. Softest of skin which transferred the ridges of your fingerprints into erratic ripples, hardened nipples. I’m such an emotional cripple. Leaning my face against the island in the kitchen, trying to will the dawn to keep your girlfriend asleep. Inhaling the smell of you deep. Deeper.

I wanted to knock you down, take you down. Down onto the dirty kitchen floor. Down with the crumbles of our late night drunken feast. The bits only college students could miss. Rip off this purple dress, too tight, too short, swallow you in flames of pain, pushed on by passion, lust, and longing. And Love.

Will is measured in ounces. Ounces of drink. Ounces of anger. Ounce of our souls we give up in the night, we sacrifice to others, we believe we were ever capable of possessing. Giving more than we ever knew we had. Measured in ounces. Not inches or bra sizes. Not even in miles or in age. Thrown up to the moon in wailing howls sharper than love making by shooting star lights and cramped dorm beds.

I have spent so many nights reliving your fingers slipping into the space between mine, rocking with the sheen of an unspeakable surrender, dying and reborn each time. Each time, held high and fast. Close and safe.

The safety, nestled within the pack of friends. Safety, with you nestled between my thighs, arms over either side of my kneecaps, wicked words of wild west stories rejoicing the pack into content camaraderie. And later your wild tongue turned to an audience of one, rampaging wickedly my lips in a sexual act akin to the deepest prayers of Nuns and Zen Buddhists. Yea. I remember it being so good.

But the world falls fast into dawn, finding our wills stronger than bodies and hearts beating so painfully. I loved you best this night. I loved you fully. I did not pull you down to the filth of the floor, a mirror to the cravings in my mind. I surrendered the strong hold, sir, and held up the shining idea I had dreamed into existence. A dream of fairy tale endings and wild romances. Here is that dream, lover. Sir. Here it is. Share it with the world. For I cannot share it with anyone, blinded as I am, by its deafening creation.

I curl up in bed now, readying for sleep. It is in dreams now that I know you, your touch, best. Reliving the tactile recreation of the idea you cup in your palms. My palms, the same one which gripped your hair, the edges of your bed, and border of ecstasy, find only digital copies now.

Offer my dream, this idea, up into the skies lover, my sir, my friend. It is the only pure thing left to give to the merciful creators. Let that part of me be my redemption song you sing bravado. May I sleep a lasting sleep, of cryogenic legends and myths, so perfect humanity begs for them to be true.

hold my hand dear i'm
getting wet feet and
i know it has been
awhile, quite awhile
but you make me want to
feel the way i used to
feel all over again.

hold my hand dear i'm
getting wet feet and
i know it has been
awhile, quite awhile
but you make me want to
feel the way i used to
feel all over again.

I drew this for my aunt because I picked her in this year's Secret Santa.  I did this with prismacolor colored pencils.

without you i dont wanna live
without you everything seems meaningless
without you i cant think straight
without you the tears keep coming
without you...life seems pointless

You haven't woken up yet and a part of me, deep inside me, wants to relish this moment for forever.

  Trust me, it's not because I don't like to hear your voice and listen to your thoughts.  It's not that I don't like to hear your heart beat a little faster at my touch.  It's not that I don't want to feel your lips apply light pressure on my lips or on other body parts.
 
  It is simply the fact that I love to feel that you're mine forever.  You are here, in my bed, lying next to me, sleepingly content with the world.  I want to think you're having lovely dreams and that you don't need a thing.

  It is when people wake up from their dreams that they leave.  And I then wish they wouldn't have woken up.  I guess it's merely because I wished that I was their dream

I need to stop falling in love with strangers.

----

Your mouth is a wound and every word that pours out is blood pooling at my feet.
I'm treading in a sea of your hemorrhaging articulation.

I'd love to drown.

You are a stranger in my landscape. But, baby, you're the focal point.
And when you smile, I smile, and my stomach drops to my knees.

And then you're gone and I'll never know you but I'll love you still
and keep you close during all of my disappointments.

Sad and sad is the state of the world,
Where the rich man's folly
Crushes the masses.
Sad and sad is the state of the world,
Where the fanatic's terror
Murders the innocent.
Sad and sad is the state of the world,
Where my son's future
Struggles for happiness.

bright white light II-
there's a pain i can't fight...
i'm forever, dressed in night...
night is all that's real...
it knows just how to make you feel...

follow me to the land of forgotten dreams...
deep inside the mind, there's diamonds in the streams...
a rich land...
hidden under the sand...
skeletons tell the story...
of risking their lives for this paradise city...
forbidden by the kings...
a beautiful voice sings...
'stay away from my things...'

Twenty seven years old, today.
An old woman's soul.
It's winter - yet the chill warms me.
Snow falling like an offering from the sky, in my honor.
If I could freeze time, I'd pluck each beautifully carved flake from the atmosphere and find a way to preserve the moment within them.
I'd Lock myself away with my collection of crystallized time fragments and relive the moment over and over...
But suddenly, I realize -
This fancy is but a fleeting sensation of longing, for the truth remains...
I love the solitude in being alone, but I can't tolerate the alienation of loneliness.