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Old 03-05-2014, 09:33 PM View Post #501 (Link)
Keladry (Offline)
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Location: Dreamland
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I’m not fifteen and perfect,
I don’t know if he’s worth the fight.
His lips are chapped and his grin is crooked.
His eyes aren’t blue as the sea or green as a gem;
they’re somewhere in between and his hand:
he’s got callouses and he’s a guy I mean,
what really can I expect of clean?
He’ll hold on so tight, he says
he’ll never, ever let go.
Just a trial date, just to see, he’s patient he—
understands being me, but he says
He says he’ll never hurt me, I don’t have to live in fear.
The truth is I’m terrified, I want to cry,
my head isn’t spinning. My stomach is not in knots
and everything is by the book. We ask before we touch
and his fingers never brush by “accident”
My feet never stumble, throwing me right into his arms
and I wake up in the morning, he’s not first on my mind and yet
whenever I see that little <3 or hear a guy called handsome
or somebody else’s date
and I imagine me
first,
I imagine him.
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						Last edited by Keladry; 03-05-2014 at 09:37 PM.
					
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Old 03-06-2014, 07:44 PM View Post #502 (Link)
sbenzing (Offline)
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Location: New Hampshire
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Coroded,
a steel post driven into the ground
more held together by the chain link
than the subtance of itself.
Like the fender of my Buick every morning
when I step outside and drive to work,
rolling a cigarette on the dashboard,
hoping that my favorite country song
will pop up on the radio.
The chain on my 12 speed
or the breaks of my motorcycle
after a long unforgiving winter.
Rusted,
yes thats the word.
I am rusted, rusty,
in the process of falling apart,
losing my touch.
Yes, I am rusty, a tin man in my own mind,
grinding away with some paper and a pen,
lost in the woods serving a forgotten purpose.
But even for him, there was hope,
and all he needed was some oil.
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Old 03-07-2014, 01:29 PM View Post #503 (Link)
sbenzing (Offline)
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Location: New Hampshire
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Uncertainty and inexperience are my cloak
worn around my shoulders,
collar standing straight up against the
cynical looks and judging eyes.
But poetry wets my tongue, salivates
my mouth, quickens the beat of my heart.
Put it back! Open it up!
The empty page(s) stare up at me,
stare across at me, like a woman
across the room blushing at her
nakedness,
waiting for me to stake my claim.
Be gentle. Be gentle you fool!
I am more than gentle:
I am uncertain, inexperienced,
floundering about in my expensive coat.
But tonight there are no judgmental looks;
tonight there are just my poems to write.
So I bare myself, shed my cloak,
leave my uncertainty puddled on the ground
at the foot of my bed,
carry my inexperience in my arms
and express myself in honest
gentle touches and strokes.
Tonight, I bare myself to these pages.
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"The definition of an asshole is a guy who doesn't believe what he's seeing. And you can quote me." - Stephen King

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Old 03-11-2014, 05:06 PM View Post #504 (Link)
sbenzing (Offline)
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It's an addiction, really, not unlike
what I imagine heroine would do
to me.
Its gentle as a wind across your face,
but so volatile and feral,
like the wind is just a precursor
to a magnificent storm
gathering in the distance, billowing
in splashes of crimson and overcast
with layers of brown.
And it strokes your face one moment
the next shes clawing and biting
your ears your lips your tongue.
And she shivers,
whether its just her smooth chest, or
sometimes her whole body begins to quiver
with tension.
I'm addicted to the way I can control
how she moves, when she squirms,
how loud she cries into my ear
by how hard I press, how fast I go.
I inhale the heat coming off of her stomach,
feel her tongue stealing mine,
shiver as she nibbles on my lip.
I'm addicted to the power,
my ability to please her,
and it runs through my veins
like.... like heroine.
__________________
"The definition of an asshole is a guy who doesn't believe what he's seeing. And you can quote me." - Stephen King

If you wish me to critique your poetry or prose just PM/VM me.
  
						Last edited by sbenzing; 03-11-2014 at 05:16 PM.
					
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Old 03-11-2014, 07:04 PM View Post #505 (Link)
sbenzing (Offline)
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I wish I could hide
up in the ceiling tiles where I used to keep
my explicit CD's, so my parents
wouldn't find them.
Or squish myself under my bed
and hide where I used to keep my
skanky magazines:
Maxim or Playboy.
I just want a place to hide
where no one can find me.
On warm summer days
it used to be at the old
Veterans Memorial Park
on top of the baseball dugout,
eyes half closed hoping I'd fall asleep.
And in the winter it was always
off in a corner of the library
reading a book,
watching people as they walk by.
Some days I'd sneak off into the woods
and find the old wooden picnic table
or the miniature railroad tracks
we used to watch as kids.
Its always somewhere I feel more comfortable
than in my own skin,
somewhere my mind can wander
and my childish thoughts can play.
Somewhere I can spend hours
and nobody cares, watching the sun
slip like a trout back into the horizon.
I'd even settle for a boat on the edge
of the lake without a pole,
just watching the sun reflect off the
water.
Its peace I guess that I want,
a place where I don't have to worry,
and its not a cage or a safe house
that I need.
I just need a place to hide
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Old 03-12-2014, 01:44 PM View Post #506 (Link)
Hum (Offline)
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This thing in me
sobs
folds into my diaphragm
and waits.
That is all.
What it wanted was speed at dawn,
from then on it walked like a cripple,
half a being and something else in the dark.
It woke me in the afternoon,
I was gardening,
it was a breeze.
There was plenty of time for it to move into the attic.
It settled, and now it eats and sleeps
and sometimes loves too hard in the corners of me.
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Old 03-18-2014, 12:42 AM View Post #507 (Link)
sbenzing (Offline)
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Location: New Hampshire
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I could fall asleep like this right now,
my head in you lap, cheek turned against
your soft breasts,
listening to the steady beating of your heart.
I can close my eyes and snuggle close
to feel your chest dip up and down
like the bobbing and rolling of an old
rowboat out on the lake in the early morning.
And your warmth fills my mouth and nose
like I'm lying besdie the fire on a muggy summers
night, staring up at the stars through
slowly tilting and swirling plooms of smoke
and softly glowing specks of sunset orange.
I just need a place, a place to hide myself away
to tuck myself away and fall asleep,
to get away from this world.
Yes I could fall asleep right here,
hide away for a while as you hold my head
against your stomach and run your fingers
through my hair.
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Old 03-18-2014, 03:13 PM View Post #508 (Link)
sbenzing (Offline)
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They rack my body and expand inside my chest,
scrape their way up through my lungs
with their dirty claws and shred their way
through my throat,
exploding out of my mouth in hoarse cawings
and pitiful wheezings.
Something is wrong with me.
They leave me on the floor curled into a ball,
every muscle in my body as tense as
one of the springs embedded in my matress.
They leave me facedown in my pillow at night
drool spilling out of my mouth
in spurts and my body spasaming
like my veins are infested with ants instead of blood.
Tears come spilling out of my eyes
till I can't see and colors burst in front of me,
blinding me, and dots of blue and red
and orange come spiraling down over my eyes.
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Old 03-18-2014, 03:35 PM View Post #509 (Link)
gabyisthebest (Offline)
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Join Date: Mar 2014
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I stand by myself, sensing, not seeing
Hoping what I say is the truth
I see as a specter not really believing
What everyone sees as the truth
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Old 03-24-2014, 07:27 PM View Post #510 (Link)
Julian (Offline)
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eh, poem in works. content's not even halfway done.


Like the ink of a printing press influential and cold in its work/Like the ink of a storm splashing on its victims, or the manuscript published at the death of a revolutionary author, the ground blotted with his blood
after being shot by the conquerors with a stony glare. An artist’s woe, the pen,
unwilling in its function to create pain, slipped downwards from his clammy grip, his
thoughts glazed with a foamy shadow so black it would make the night light
with envy. Outside, the sun has not yet sung, the moon like the marble in his
throwback hand of a child unaware of his circumstances, a mixture of soil
and shard, a glassy metaphor of an Earth soon to break. This night reminds him
of seaside existence. Trying to relive the time when he ate cheap fish with his mother
in a busy crowd under streetlights, a different memory surged, not that of a blue
childhood covered in scales and mud when it should have, but of when he and
his mother left his father’s house in a fire of jealousy, in a night barefoot procession
of cicada hymns and fireflies whose lights never ignited concrete walls/spread like
cancerous specks across his eyes. Burned to live again, all-glistening like a newly-made
coin. Burn a bush to save your life. He cannot transmute his life into a form of art.
(put or not?: For what cheapness, what shamelessness of the soul!) The angel inside
of him thrashed itself forcibly out of a religious lifestyle. Then, the fall. His wings ripped
from his back, the neck snapped, and his head stomped into a coma. To him, being
lost is a spiritual practice. His mother followed as a mourning wife tired at
the remains of their relationship. His rusty reflection in the oolong paled against
the gold and cashmere in the Turkish bazaar where she disappeared to
replace her cheap wedding ring.

But to commemorate life, one must forgive, like a pest that mistook wealth for
food, the brief flash of life out of a trail of personal ambition. Label him a saint,
label hima dumb beast, dumb like a carcass washed up on the shore.
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						Last edited by Julian; 03-24-2014 at 11:02 PM.
					
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