It was the flick of your wrist as we sat,
opposite – leaning towards one another,
streamlined pine nestled between.
A barrier to some – but not us.
It was the slight halt of your step,
your elbow nudging the air:
where my arm was too slow,
to slip, into the crevice of your coat.
It was the look in your eyes,
slowly rolling up (like a pup)
on moving stairs and ramps.
And oh –
how I craved your caress.
It was the downward turn of your lips,
as I uttered my goodbyes.
That lingering hug, tinged with sadness.
Those mumbled words, I never heard.
It was the perplexed face,
harbouring worries of my welfare
whilst hurrying through stations and streets;
the helping hand when I stumbled.
It was the pillowed arm or chest,
that warmed my cheek at night
The blanket of you – surrounding.
Protection from the morning chill
It was the loss of these actions
and more, that instant regret
after proclaiming you were needy.
It was my loss – My need for you.
A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .
Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.
With soft fleshy lips
full against my mouth
He could suffocate me with one kiss
Yet I would die happy
With a joyous tingling inside
Willing him to keep his luscious lips on mine
When his hands firmly hold my neck
Thumb trailing over my jaw
Fingers curling around my throat
He could halt the intake of air
Yet suffocation would bring only desire
As I sigh and die
By his warm hands
Welkom op de blog van Discobar Bizar. Druk gerust wat op de andere knoppen ook, of lees het aangrijpende verhaal van Harry nu je hier bent. Welcome to the Discobar Bizar blog, feel free to push some of the other buttons, or to read the gripping story of Harry whilst you are here!
"The work will teach you how to do it." - "Le travail va vous apprendre à le faire." 09-23-18 ..... I am temporarily on hiatus, attending to matters of health and well being. I will return as soon as possible.