How slow my skin crawls when pierced by cobalt eyes.
Are you amused…overwhelmed…amplified beyond comprehension…?
Don’t rush, darling, so this bed can memorize you.
Conform to my indentation.
Soak up every bit of what your body can handle.
I will let you go relentless, for every pain is deepest pleasure.
Your brand new unfamiliar is intoxicating, presses me breathless,
legs around hips around rhythmic force.
Whisper beautiful commands against my chest.
Each touch from blossomed lips is an electric shock,
an honest moan, fingertips in creamy thighs.
Don’t be afraid to explore that which drives imagination mad.
Shyness is a luxury passion cannot afford.
Bent and broken, strength in your weakness,
has beauty awoken the beast.
Grant me no penance as this thirst is never sated.
How slow my skin crawls when pierced by cobalt eyes.
You stir in my dreams. Pulse awareness in my veins.
Just out of reach of petulant fingertips.
Separated by moonlight and singular intentions.
Yet, you are what I’m aiming for and cannot hit my mark.
I have shattered into endless pieces
and I am deeply jealous of your unity.
Oh, how a mess could be made beautiful in your presence.
How it would be if you could cut your eyes in my direction,
cradle your palm on the side of my face,
kiss me unsteady from the feel of your life upon me.
Only you awaken this stumbling passion and desire within…
Are you still too far, too shy to touch and electrify this sullen skin?
Our numbered seasons stand knocking on windows.
Invite me in, darling…call me forward.
Whisper my name so enticing I move without clarity.
A misplaced princess has fallen in love with a perfect prince.
- I may be the only person I know that prefers uncomfortable silence to pointless chit-chat. If I’m not talking, it’s usually for a reason.
- Sometimes it sucks having been raised with a severe respect for authority/elders. I’d really love to tell a couple of people I work with to just shut it. Gah.
- I need to begin searching for a sugar daddy. This whole paying for stuff just isn’t working for me anymore. I’d happily let somebody else do it for me.
- Is it weird that blog writing makes me feel not so lonely? I don’t do it very often, but it always makes me feel better.
- In my bitter old age (haha), I find myself groaning at other people’s happiness. Even if I am happy for them and whatever it is that has made them happy, there is still a reflexive “ugh” that escapes my mouth.
- My motivation comes in very short supply.
- If you have not fallen hopelessly in love with Hozier’s music, then I suggest you chickity-check yourself.
- My contacts keep ripping in half on my eyeball. …That can’t be very good.
- Anytime anyone says they find me attractive, I immediately want to ask, “What is wrong with you?”
- The wonderful sun cooked my legs while I was on vacation. Wanna see?….
I crave you.
A want so overwhelming, so agonizing
that it stirs these complacent synapses to action.
It drips from my fingertips and I let it drench my skin…
this warm and salty, bitter taste of you.
It is the motivation in my veins,
what is most hardened carnal in my heart,
you keep this adrenaline coursing.
So often I toss unrested and unsatisfied,
my body in fits for a fix of just the smell of your skin,
the sound of a deep command from your lungs,
your hands tangled in my hair desperately urging more…
a low-lidded stare intent enough to
send lightning through trembling muscles.
Your natural disaster is all I need to sate me.
Tempted fingernails trace the curvature of breasts and hips
and what your eyes cannot see will drive you wild.
Mad like me. Ache like me.
There is more than one place for you.
My mirror shows someone I do not recognize.
Stolen years, whitecaps under bridges,
cynicism and pain glare out of cloudy irises.
You were once magnificent. Beautiful.
My how the mighty have fallen.
You’re not even a glimmer, a speck
of what you should have been. Could have been.
A slave to the past, trapped in vices,
searching for that which is long gone,
and can never, will never come back.
I long for the days of security, confidence
and youth that doesn’t feel so tired, so old.
A tear crawls down the curve of a swollen eye
and I feel as if most of me has died.
No one wants to live as a stranger in their own body.
Since I started my St. Patrick’s day by oversleeping, thus making me late for work, I could totally use all of this….
- Steve Carell really just gets better with age.
- Some books on the Barnes and Noble website: actual book, $9.99…nook book, $21. Uh….
- Nothing makes me sad like an unfinished poem.
- Am I the only one who really doesn’t see anything special about Valentine’s Day?
- I have two big bags and countless little bags of Crispy M&M’s and I am, officially, the happiest girl on the planet.
A wolf on the hunt. Prowler. Curious and hungry.
I walk as easy prey. Oblivious. Enchanting.
Cobalt eyes beat kindled amber
and I feel the weight of your cross hairs on my body.
It’s a tingle and a torture,
and you don’t know I can hunt just as well.
Each step raises awareness, heightens breathing.
Entranced by pink glossy lips, church bell hips,
dodging thoughts of what I have on beneath my skirt.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s lacy little.
Maybe you need to find out.
Before God and among this crowd of people,
slide terrified and inquisitive fingers up soft,
curved thighs and feel for yourself.
Pupils dilate at the mere thought,
and you don’t try to hide your excitement.
So feel the breeze, pick up my scent,
stalk these bells to worship.
It’s time for the wolf to feast.