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Literature
pretty little poet fingers
fabricated gods rest between the
languid crevices of
her fingertips, scribbling profanities
all over her skin.
she's just mismatched bones
& blue bruises, telling of forbidden
love through archaic letters.
a tongue made for
wanderlust, & eyes made
for the stars,
even the devil fears her.
Literature
Sad poems need pretty titles.
April was lungs weak of blue, and
scalpels held in heartless,
uncaring hands.
You told me you were no coward
that the seas and the oceans
whispered in your ears and told you
only the bravest of men
deserve to kiss their beds.
May passed too quickly.
No time for mourning
when I gained ten pounds
of pure muscle
holding up your stars.
People asked too many questions.
People told me I was strong.
One day in June
you woke up to a skeletal frame
that wasn’t yours and the biggest,
strongest ribcage I’d ever seen.
I had cornfields in my eyes;
You misplaced your anchor
and your mind.
Literature
little yellow lover
little
yellow lover
my m oo n
i love you
Her
like flowers
of may
purling azalea
blooms
&
the Him
who wants
nothing more nothing less(than
skin
so soft
and the
breasts so fat
with blue sea)
sinking in
between
curves limbs & all
asleep
(& i like this my body
on yours
gentle lungs heavy breaths
sleeping
on the soft
of big legs limbs
so
may i
open you
to find the star
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cli·ché
klēˈSHā/
noun
- 1.a phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.
© 2015 - 2024 oliviacolomar
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awesome