The carcasses of inspiration
Wine glasses with Burgundy residue
Speaking to late nights & early mornings
Scribbles in the margin on the follow through
Feeling parched as I wake
Noticing your lipstick stains
Upon the rim of the glass
Reminding me of the dreams that remain
Bleary eyed, drinking the coffee grounds
Searching for a fate within the dregs
Fumbling over these typewriter keys
Lightheaded when I see your naked legs
Your smile is a distraction
But you pop a button & then one more
I’m at your complete mercy
Once the nightgown hits the floor
TastyCinnamonn from Pixabay
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Immune to a power surge
I sit alone & quietly type Not affected by technology Refuse to be your modern gripe
I switched off my terrestrial radio
But I’ll still pound at these keys I’m not cool or a trendy guy I’m reserved, doing as I please
There’s never been an audience
Just a few genuine folks Sharing myself sparingly I’m better with these slow strokes
I’ll continue to conjure ideas
Preferring to use my typewriter Nothing fancy; just a love of words Old, but I can still pull an all nighter
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Securely sheltered in your castle
He makes sure you’re secluded Always firmly safe from all harm Obviously he’s benignly deluded
The loneliness still quietly invades
The walls upward of 10 feet high Locks, bolts & your skeleton keys Helpless against memories of a guy
Your suburban paradise glitters
But you’d rather be alive instead Perfection laid at your feet, but The punk of your youth isn’t dead Like this: Like Loading...
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I hear the sea calling
I must traverse her once more Collecting my wares Looking for the key to her door
It’s never a pleasant voyage
For I know who I leave behind But The Lord comforts me & I have memories to remind Like this: Like Loading...
Typing, hacking, thinking – Smokin’ hot
Typing your best to empty all thought
Pouring your soul into force upon the keys
Your woman walks past with a dress above the knees
Now you can’t think or type or stammer straight
The hell with with deadlines – this one’s gonna be late
You pray to the spirits of procastrination or whatever you think of
Burn this project right now, sacrifice it in the name of love Like this: Like Loading...
Feeling life through the paper
The keys leaving marks with texture Don’t wander too long We don’t want to leave life to their conjecture Like this: Like Loading...
Celestial bodies writhe
She may not be an answer
But perhaps she’s the key
At the end of the Earth
You’ll find no more ground
Dust falling off the coast
Sail around for awhile
Nurture love & freedom
Return to find me here
Within her, I find truth
A value to be upheld
Know the stark secret
skeeze from Pixabay Like this: Like Loading...
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Won’t sit idle, watching from the sidelines
Letting the Man throw away the key
Remaining passive in the Shadows All because I have the improper pedigree Like this: Like Loading...
“Eating the peach is a meditation. Your mind empties of all the must dos and should have dones. You are pure being. Your lover’s tongue is the key that turns the lock that opens the pleasure box. Life has few perfect moments; moments of cunnilingus score the highest on the sex blissometer.”
― Chloe Thurlow, Katie in Love Like this: Like Loading...
Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com
Willfully getting lost in the woods with my woman
Far from the hordes of the sick & infected Shutting doors & leaving society behind Once away, fresh air & peaceful intent detected
Outside, I can find the crispness of nature
& my pure, unencumbered path to be free Wrapping my soul within Winter’s chill These unharnessed elements might be the key Like this: Like Loading...