Yes, your touch is unbelievably arousing
As you pull out of me a sensual part I had forgotten
Yes your tongue does marvels against mine
As you slide your hands painstakingly, slowly under my blouse
Bittersweet…marvelous…forg

Liar.
” I don’t want to talk about it”
Oh , you liar.

Has your every word ever been a truth?
Your actions and reactions not induced by your nether regions?
Liar, lie, please lie.
Please lie so i’ll pull’em down
and realize there’s really nothing there!

Your touch was a lie
your kiss was a lie
Most of all do i care?
Liar please lie
Lie as you kiss me
Lie as you call me
Liar, hurt me?
Hardly.
My pride more than my soul
Liar please, let’s hear your speech
If it isn’t what the crickets already told me. …

I could have been
I could have been
except now, i won’t stand for it.

A liar lies
A womanizer tries
Liar please, entertain me
Liar please…my tongue might slip
My papers might flow

OH MY, was that an msn conversation up on my station?
Oh shit, our SMS on my blog?

Liar, what have you done?

My eyes lied to you
Didn’t they love you?
Cajole you?
Put it in your head
That I was writhing under your every touch?

My deceitful eyes
Turned me into a man’s stepping stone
A lover’s threshold
As they cheated my fragile heart
Taunting my soul to
Straighten out the wrinkles on my bed
The wrinkles on my heart
And curl to sleep

My chocolate irises lure you into a world
As ephemeral as my moods,
My arousals, my emotions
And my soul
They’re amber today,
Or Brown tomorrow
They could be
Toffee with anger
Or Hazel under your touch
Just believe me when I say my brown eyes lie
Until they rest on what’s next

I’d like to stop
Stop loving a man for just one night
Wake up in arms that hold me tight
Arms I desire
And that desire me back
Stop wanting him now and hating him tomorrow
Unveil the turmoil my brown irises cover

Was I meant for you? No
You were meant for me…
As were the others who’ve looked into my shameless eyes
My lying eyes, my cheated heart, my illusory soul…
I cheated myself
Do I regret? No
Do I want to switch lanes? Yes
How i wish my eyes could lie…
to you.

I wrote this for a friend of mine, because right now i admire her relationship with her boyfriend so much…

Real Poetry is when he holds her, silently acquiescing to all her demands
caressing her lips and calming down the rhythm of her heart
Real poetry is when I look at my friends
the twinkle in their eyes putting the constellations to shame
“No red carpet, no angry neither stare, nor jealous tongue should make you doubt that you’re my girl”
Every night I’ve seen him wear his heart on his sleeve,
sleep at the crook of her neck;
Satisfied that her face will be first in the morning
Embracing the comfort it brings
Before putting on the mask of the spotlight
Inducing the lies and possessiveness …
His position inherits

He sings to her
And she smiles
He kisses her in delight
Revels in their emotions

It’s all silent whispers
Sweet nothings
Let it rain, let it storm
He’ll be drenched
Nonetheless he’s right here with her
That’s real poetry
As Symphonies melt two hearts.
If two become one
I’ve seen it only with them
I can’t help but smile…
Real poetry is love

My wrist curves gently as I think about their two complexions
Brown Sugar and Caramel…
My eyes swell up lightly
When I compare their happiness to mine
Why can’t I live, what they live?
How can she find happiness and I find Lucifer?
How could an Adonis turn into an illusion?
Is it the lack of emotion?
Is it his lack of self respect?
Or a need of etching that mask into his skin?
His fingers sure can caress
So carelessly, so sensually…
His fingers can embrace her heart and blind her eyes
Taunt my soul and pull its strings
And caress this one’s face, as he lies
As. he. Lies.
But 3’s a crowd in a game of hearts

He’s here again…and she’s happy again
Brown eyes meet hazelnut
I know she’ll run and he’ll catch her
And I’ll smile because I’ve never seen my friend so happy
I want Real Poetry…like theirs

This is a totally fictional piece

just imagine a crazed bushy haired short, girl in a night gown, chewed on nails with ink under them, scribbling furiously in a journal

For the sake of my soul I could admit that I’m insane. Anyone seeing me right now , would admit that I’m insane…A constant feeling of being fucked up in the head, and that’s why I’m constantly writing…writing again, scratching on rough paper, ink under my fingernails, hair in disarray….WRITING.

Never mind though, this isn’t a story. This is me. This is me tied together with a smile and coming undone ungracefully. This is what I do, my words are pretty or my words are raw, whichever the case may be, a part of me is always in between the lines. I have a million words plaguing my brain, making me the pariah of the usual world. I’ve been reaching out, but do the blind see the blind? The deaf hear the deaf? Do I want to be pulled out? My pen is my confident, my best friend, I need to scribble idly, furiously.

I’m one of those…The ones who do not need to think about what the next words are, the ones who do not cry (per say), but write it out. Verses on napkins, quotes on covers and paragraphs on loose leaf…. If I were to believe every anecdote and quote about the heart and the soul I’d be in my most solemn and serious right to admit that mines look like something next to chopped, flawed, dry liver. This is my journal, not Anne Franck’s.

I’ve come undone and broken into thousand of little pieces but none of them fit into my puzzle, none of them reflect me. Not to branch out on the syndrome of the martyr but let’s put down the blazing gun, omit the spit and fire and be honest…we crave this pain; we hate the drama but crave the pain, because it’s the writer’s muse.

The whole “feel your heart out, reach for the moon, follow your heart” speech is nice, it is;

and there will always be someone out there to give it…but has anyone ever told you in a conversation to reach for the stars and if you FAIL not fall, fail. You’ll land on a cloud (just watch out for the ozone layer)? I didn’t think so. We’re human beings…we’re sensate, passionate, emotive human beings that should have “completely utterly wild and stupid” as our middle names.

Me? I’m caged. I’m queen to King Midas in reverse…everything I touch I ruin, I am self destructive; it’s the story of my life to turn solutions into problems. Sometimes I do things that make me think I’m insane…I make mistakes, that’s what I do. I speak without thinking, I act without knowing but God knows I mean well. In all honesty, if you have the will, God gives you the strength…My will is weak.

My only friends are my pen and the dance floor…I express my deepest emotions and feel every movement because it’s my passion. On paper, as my heart pours out what my soul dictates, my every thought and emotion is on these few lines, caressed by the curving of my wrist with each word I write…The smell of paper and ink, the ache of the writer’s cramp. I crave, I need.

I write for the sake of my soul, i write to admit that I’m insane..
Who are you? What have you done lately?

“I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.”- Tennessee Williams