hater12

i find it easier by the passing day to look into the abysmal deparvity of souls and come to no conclusion of my own my worn and weathered heels beg reprief under the weight of the waning moon thick blackness coats the pavement the nights are long and the roads are longer passersby appear inhuman and ever less humane i see eyes staring back at me when i look into the darkness the eyes of beasts and beings seeking warmth, hearth, and shelter the door swings open and the air is thick inside over my shoulder wilderness beckons and the nightly celestials demand my presence shall i let them in, these creatures of the night? expose what littl

We could run off, catch a train to who knows where, who cares where, Sydney, New York, or just the forest. And we could sit, listen to music, listen to each others heartbeats. Or just listen to the wind; it's the most pretty sound anyway really. Or you could finally sing to me. We could hold hands, fight in front or our family and friends, or kiss in front of the world. So long as we're together.

i know i was thinking of your hands in class how one would be on my cheek and the other on my waist, how your lips would be an inch from mine and you would just talk to me and i couldn't breathe. it felt like i was holding my breath and i still couldn't breathe, only this wasn't out of sheer anticipatory magic or wild heart shakes, this was crawling-out-of-my-skin unhappiness.

i feel a dull ache in my hips and i liken it to my yearning for you with the flexion of my thighs and the rotation of my shoulders, i cant seem to always be turning to face you it hurts. i'm hurting everywhere, it hurts to be near you and it hurts to be away [and yet i still prefer it] it's an ache, unaccompanied by the sickness of remembering your smile

my hands start with tosseled brown waves, soft and welcoming to my work-hardened fingertips. they brush through with ease, running smoothly from widows peak to neck's nape. i follow the trace of his jaw line, nimble digits dancing away from their set path to mingle within the valley between plush lips. a strong gust runs northwward with his sharp intake of breath as my thumb draws lazily across his lower lip's ridge. my mind is pulled away from the task at hand: he speaks. "what is it you desire? what destination do you seek?" my reply is simple, "i'll let you know when i get there. for now, i just want it all mapped out"

she's got that thing; the sway in her hips and bounce in her step, that makes you want to touch her and in her eyes, there's something deep it sparkles at you without her looking and glints and gleams and glows it makes you crave that being in those clothes as she dances - oh, how she dances - to the beat you'd swear was long gone and she revived it. she's not an it girl, she's the girl. she's got that smile factor.

why do i feel so alone in a world full of happy people? i sit, isolated, in my separate "happy" place and stare at all the smiling faces, shedding a solemn tear for every laugh that isn't mine. is it supposed to hurt this much? is it normal to sob so often? should your happiness make me so sad? i don't know why it does, and i couldn't answer you if i tried. all i know is that this poem is done because i don't want my tears to destroy my keyboard today.

"So. Miss...Green? Yes, Green. What would you like to talk about?" "nothing." "Surely there's something on your mind, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Please, feel free to discuss whatever it is openly with me. I'm here to help." "you know, it's a sin what you get paid." "Beg pardon?" "one hundred and twenty-six dollars and fifty-four cents per hour, taxes included for you to listen to my problems." "That's a standard fee, Miss Green. I can't control how much-" "how much of the cut you get? yeah, you can. you take just enough to offset taxes so that you're basically immune to them." "Miss Green, we aren't here to discuss my salary, we'

a veneration, in whose honour? of encomium, congrats, and acclamation, a sentiment sanctioned solely to you. i do not denounce or vituperate, not libel with censure. an emanation of sacchariferous exactitude to laurel your every effectuation.