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Brush stroked soft yet tender
a suggestion where lips do place
where moments awaken
to sensory perception
smell, touch, taste

alive with provocation
sliding down thy naked skin
satisfying human nature
in momentous  ejaculation
where then, we must begin again…

(via lzlabseesu)

— 20 minutes ago with 64 notes
#Poetry  #poets on tumblr  #sexetry  #erotic  #creative writing  #spilled ink  #lzlabs  #Queued post  #lzlabseesu  #poetry 
I Promise


Promise seats itself
poised, behind canopies of fervent hope
deeply rooted in the belly of… what if
and it could be

driving a Cadillac
through the streets of possibility
with the windows down,
as cool wind blows your hair
you whistle confidence
into an appetite of desire
that feeds your fire,

for the prospect of high hope
rides on the simple truth
that all promises
have been kept by you

(via lzlabseesu)

— 48 minutes ago with 53 notes
#poets on tumblr  #spilled ink  #creative writing  #lzlabs  #Queued post  #lzlabseesu 
Devastation In A Black Dress (Variation) →


Whiskey amber loose string guitar whine
Slow dirty dancing
Hips keeping metronome strict time
Swaying alone under cool blue light
Tick-tocking sticky limbic light switch
Reptilian hind brain licking hungry
Fingers running through chocolate ribbon hair
Plucking strings anchored to my bones
Pulling magnetic irresistible

(via beautifulimposter25)

— 1 hour ago with 45 notes
#twc  #thebeautifulimposter  #spilled ink  #beautifulimposter25  #poetry 

i recall

the little boy

with tousled hair

who once lived there

a small lad

who dressed in hand me down

jeans and shirt

and worn out scuffed brown shoes

the little lad

with the silent smile

with sky blue eyes

i recall

he once lived there


by his innocence


in his


i recall


tousled hair lad


(via jsweptson)
— 1 hour ago with 8 notes
#jsweptson  #Queued post  #poetry 
I’m okay, really


You left me unhurt
Since all of my “I love you’s “
Were lies just like yours

— 2 hours ago with 17 notes
#poem  #haiku form  #a-graveyard-of-thoughts  #Queued post  #poetry 


Poem for boy with all his baby teeth in a ring box under his bed. Poem for boy with bee stingers in his palm, for broken neck birds, too many pink scars on his shoulders. Poem for boy nailing our scarecrow to the tree out back. Poem for boy, bloodless hands, dead father, weighed down branches, steady. Poem for riverbank eulogy, poem for the house on fire, for the empty bedrooms, for the baby teeth, for his scratched out face, for the wheat I pulled to make that scarecrow whole. Poem for boy, for husk, for knotted rope, and a white bird, all quiet, all burned. 

— 3 hours ago with 257 notes
#prose  #creative writing  #spilled ink  #rejectscorner  #i am FUCKED UP  #in the head  #everything i write involves the death of something  #or something burning  #or something  #what  #wildflowerveins  #Queued post  #poetry 
Carcinogens Of Choice


We’ve all got it
some kind of malignancy
How I go about mine
is damn well up to me

What’s a few less years
a few more crows feet
some whisky in my voice

So I go ahead
light up again
and delight
in the carcinogens
of choice

(via aquietjoy2)

— 3 hours ago with 22 notes
#Queued post  #poetry 


Write poetry so intense   
it crashes
leaving an eternal scar

(via lzlabseesu)

— 4 hours ago with 110 notes
#haiku  #spilled ink  #creative writing  #Queued post  #lzlabs  #lzlabseesu 
Tapetum Lucidum


-for Michael Brown-

Michael, we hear it. 
The rust in your breathing. 
The road stretched far too long; the sirens
rearing up like horses chasing fox. 
The bloodhounds with their thirst
behind the wheel. Pistol. Badge. 

It is a terrible machine, Michael. 
A cold, anonymous steel. In your dying, 
we heard cogs skipping their teeth; 
we heard your pleas, were offered 
hinge-grease mitigation remedies,
were told assault; were shown 
the roadkill at the wheel of the car.

They’re trying to keep it running, 
Michael. Weren’t you tired of running? 
Of living with your hands above your head; of 
black-but-gentle, black-but-college-in-October; black 
and everything desired, contradiction? 

Michael, gunshots. Michael, six. Four,
and you might have survived, they said. 
The glistening, mole-blind bones

that held you upright; walked you slowly
down the street you couldn’t cross, 

your body dark; your eyes 
reflecting what they saw.

— 4 hours ago with 83 notes
#Poetry  #spilled ink  #mike brown  #ferguson  #ferguson police  #ferguson riots  #nectar-traps  #racism  #I'm so tired of the society we live in  #I'm so disappointed  #Queued post  #poetry