roggyscanvas:

The truth is
I don’t want my mind
When it gets like this

outofherhead:

She could shovel it out but not take it
So she decided that she should just fake it
She put up a wall
At least ten foot tall
And sat on the top of it naked

lightningcollision:

Her sultry skin begs to be loved
a thousand times over,
hands that have stroked faces, spelled names,
written of a love she was born for,
silk and satin, and eyes of wonder,
she hungers
for someone to cherish, to love
without reservation, complication, complaint,
a love so bright it puts the stars to shame,

her sultry skin, it begs to be loved
and you will never be enough.

thewritersaddress:

sleepless nights
curdle in dark circles,
there is blood in
this water,
the fear is no longer
sweet as daisy-chains,
and the ignorance is
unapologetic,
before the thirst is
caught,
the abyss will descend,
and only the vultures
surrounding us,
will prosper from our
tears.

outofherhead:

static plays it’s sweet tune
which I dance to
oblivious to the fact
it lacks any sign of real movement,
a currant 
still passing through me.
and I close my eyes and sway,
comfortably wrapped
in my own arms
I am able if only momentarily 
to block out, the outside world.

 

Darling,
let’s play pictionary. pull out your favorite dictionary, the one with notes of fanciful rhetorical blather in the margins.
describe my shapeless dots and lines. help me define what lies behind a simple heart… or other parts.
lips that long to be kissed or parted with penetrating synonyms for passion… or the lack there of; why play this silly game you ask?
your art is too refined for me. and i… i am too slow to understand, how your hand can connect to your soul in such a way that it leaks when you write; giving me pieces of you to store for rainy days.
while i am content to splash shades of jade and cerulean on a sketch of a chiseled western european man,
hands outstretched toward an everlasting sky,and he smiles.
a little like you. open and true.
its pearlescence casts a warm citrine glow about the room.
yet i mourn that our connection is thin; ever changing.
yellowing with age and fading,
much like the mediums we communicate through.
we know we were never meant for eternity.
for our love knows only the permanence of fleeting emotion. 

Honesty
Being naked in a winter outfit
Complete with snow pants and gloves
Having just a little too much to drink
Giving a speech to the one you love
Standing on a plank they can kick you off of
Crying in the presence of your enemy
Vulnerability is me being me
Lonely, mysterious, but free
Dreaming during the war for my soul
I am totally oblivious and yet all knowing
Everything you need and nothing you want
All in the same breath
Untouchable by death
Living only to regret life
Fragile
The knife I crave
To carve away my misgivings is just a bit to far
From reach
Eyes plead for release
Allow me my vulnerability

I feel…
No I don’t.
I can’t.
I won’t.
Feeling is for
Tender lovers or;
Psychotic murderers or;
Clandestine theives experiencing
Adrenaline highs.
I, do not feel.
I am.
Void.
The eternal lonesomeness within.
No one ventures to this place anymore.
Fine lines hang my
Ragged, gaping, lifeless soul.
Strung up, strange fruit by a forgotten road.
Cold winds that blow, crow’s harsh throaty notes,
Blood curdling silence.
I have yet to feel the sting of violence that has rendered
Me thus.
I hear nothing
But the echoing of love’s phantoms dancing upon the walls of my heart.
Illustrating my misery.
I am. Empty.