Sensual eyes gaze upon what is desired;
Seductively, she awaits.
Tag: Writing
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Photo by Aleksandr Burzinskij on Pexels.com -
Before the pain, she laughed beautifully and wrote her name,
and after it came, it brought lifelessness and dark rain;
but she was never told that she was not to blame,
so when she cried, she was ashamed — and sorrow,
consternation, and anger boiled in her veins.
Though she may pass feigned smiles, if you look into her eyes,
it is there that great pain lies—
draining her joy and her essence through a forced disguise.
But there is a quiet strength that fuels the fire of hope,
and in that hope she survives, pushing back against fear and its lies;
tears constantly fall, and somehow in a desolate place, she manages to smile.
Her tears are dried and looking through gorgeous eyes,
she will abide and make it through the night. -
They were born men
With aspirations of reaching heaven
But learned to transcend
And became gods in the interim. -
Erotic reflexes drive pleasure to the edge, allowing the sensual essence to flow uninhibited. Long held thoughts are revealed in lascivious whispers, heightening the senses — leading to waves of unexpected releases; the longing of temptation is vigorously fulfilled, and the desires of the heart overflow and spill. Predilection takes over and is passionately pursued with prurient wanting; pleasure is found in both giving and receiving. Concupiscent utterances and primal screaming is not deceiving — erogenous zones cannot lie. Before more euphoric waves arrive, there are amatory whispers and a locking of the eyes. In those moments, the reticent disguise is uncovered and forever set aside; unlimited pleasure demands its subjects to fall away from foolish pride. In the giving of themselves, the dead parts of their repressed want come alive. Memories of alluring positions and seductive temptations linger in the blue fire of the mind. Intimate scenarios are replayed again and again over time. Impatiently, naughty fingers touch all the points of pleasure they can find, until next time.
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Anguished screams narrate the bowels of hell in all its depths.
Perpetual falling of dark rain washes away the blood after the opening of veins.
Lost in desolation, if they escape death, when they come back — they are never the same.
The bloodstream craves euphoria to numb unceasing pain,
but after the sun rises, sorrow still remains.
They fall to their knees and weep in sincere praying, but sorrow still remains.
Please take away the pain. They cry earnestly, please take away the pain.
But there is no change — they wail before the sun rises, but there is no change.
They want the world to know their names.
They so desperately want the world to know their names;
and feel the warmth of the sun again.
They want to feel the embrace of the warmth of the sun again.
Agony seems to never end.
The torment seems to never end. -
Listlessly they lie, like inanimate objects
unmoved as the dust collects.Insomniac eyes could never hide the dark circles
of suffering from lack of rest.After the last deep inhale,
there are no more remnants of euphoria left.When there is a stagnant silence after heavy breaths,
there is no more ecstasy left.It can be bought, but agony stalks
after it wears off.The scars of its heavy price can sometimes be seen
between the webs of the toes and on angular arms. -
There must be no safe space for them;
they must not be allowed to strike again.
They must be burned in the fire of the pain of their victims,
and have their ashes taken away by the wind.
History must only mention them in the context of, Never Again.
They must be condemned, and the womb they were conceived in.
They must be forced from their secret places in the darkness of the early morning,
and be left as sustenance for ravens, before the appearance of the red sky of the evening.
They must experience one thousand times fold, the torment of their victims;
left to contemplate their fate, shaken, by the sounds of their own breathing.
They will not be mourned in their leaving;
no beautiful floral arrangements;
no carriages with black horses, with blinders waiting;
no tears of elderly women, with silk gloves in black veils grieving.
In their final moments, the terror of their destruction will be upon them. -
We were in so much pain,
but it is pain we did not know we were in.
In our numbness, we did not feel it.
In our darkness, we did not see it.
Through the wailing of our own voices, we did not hear it;
yet we were immersed in it,
somehow, still being able to breathe.
We were listless, and in death,
we were not able to grieve.
Afraid to be awakened,
we were gods in our dreams;
for so long, we were gods in our dreams.
We survived in our numb state,
but then we longed to feel;
for so long we longed to feel.
Then the pain came again,
and it was then we knew it was real;
my god, it was so real.
But we harnessed it, and a fire was lit—
that revealed a truth that was concealed;
for long it had been concealed,
that we were gods among men.
We were gods among men, indeed. -
She is a purple hibiscus, radiant in her beauty and basking in her glory;
the morning dew is her crown, nurturing her through the warmth of the sun.
The wind blows against her, and her petals are lifted up like a spinning ballerina.
Love, is the rich soil in which she is firmly anchored.
In the celestial display of her colors, she is wondrous.
The aura of her, something ethereal—like angelic whispers. -
The womb of past secrets is stretched in agony,
longing to give birth to what is long hidden and unspeakable;
but its child is stillborn and unmourned,
because dark whispers do not make it past closed doors,
to tell accounts of what was — and the pain that still lingers.
Vengeance is dreamed of, and always tingling on the tips of the fingers.
The heart refuses to fully heal, until there is a reckoning of monsters.
They can no longer live in hiding, plotting; planning.
They must be drawn out, and utterly rooted out by their victims, limb by limb;
even the blood, bone, and sinew of them must not remain.
Nothing shall be left of them — not even the whispers of their names.
After they inflicted anguish, torment and pain
nothing again, ever again, was the same.
Intimate Compositions 