Poetry: (Her) Hands

Those ivory fingers flow smooth
over the sandpaper of my hand.
Tips dulled, but not incurious,
map the history of my skin,
tracing rivers and mountains
through those trembling lands.

Her alabaster skin, smooth -
playing counter-harmony to mine.
Tracing knuckle and feeling
the warmth radiate, glowing under
a sun shining high at noon,
her hand steady against my touch.

Soft as pearl, her hands enthrall -
touch, feeling, sensation, assail.
Sliding through my fingers like silk
and around my body like snowfall,
silent, soft skin searches mine,
each fingertip impressing a smile.

Searching hands turn searching eyes,
while searching eyes turn to smiles.

Writing: Moment in Time - Scars

He stands apart from his friends. They laugh and they joke together, yet he stands apart. His mind as dark as the night that surrounds him, he looks at his wrists and touches the fresh scars. His friends never notice the marks, they don't really care, he says to himself. Why should they? Why should anyone?

Walking away from the party, he grabs a knife from a table covered in all kinds of foods. In his hands are his two friends, liquor and pain. He sits behind the garage, the sounds of laughing only faintly heard. Taking a long drink from his bottle of Stolichnya, his hair falls over his eyes as he sets the knife on his lap. Tears standing in his eyes, he sets the bottle down and thinks of all the times before. These two friends have been the only thing in his life for years. The pain kept people from getting too close to him. The blood washed away the tears.

He picks up the knife and stares at the light shimmering off the tip. A single ray of hope, coming from his closest friend. He lowers the blade to his wrist and cuts open the scar, feeling the rush of pain shudder through his body. The blood, warm and soothing, coats his hand as if it was a lover holding him. He reaches the end of the scar and starts again, adding pressure more and more. The pain is sweet, intoxicating to him. His eyes stream tears, but he makes no sound. A ruby pool forms beneath his feet and he cant help but marvel at its beauty.

He switches hands to start again fresh on the other arm, but his fingers wont close around the knifes handle. He cut too deep again, he winced. He lets the knife drop into that sticky pool and sits back. He grabs his bottle of vodka and takes a deep drink, feeling the coolness of the liquor coat his throat. Slowly he pours the rest of the bottle on his wrist, almost crying out, washing away the blood. He reaches into his back pocket for his linen and tape. As he wraps his torn wrist, he chuckles to himself. They will never notice. They never do. He stands up and walks back to the party, leaving the bottle and knife sitting in that crimson ocean.

Poetry: Raincheck

The halls echo my footfalls,
shattering the silence around me.
I feel the cool air rush in from the door opening,
but I look up and you're not there.

I check my phone,
but no missed calls.
I look outside for you,
but find only blowing leaves.

Dejected for a moment,
I open the doors and step outside.
The brisk October wind flows around me,
bringing a smile to my lips.


I look up at the barren trees,
watching them wave to me as I walk.
I smile back at them as you call,
my smile widening into pure happiness.


You apologize for missing me again;
again I say it's no problem.
We make plans for the next day,
but I know that they are tenuous at best.

I still smile as the rain begins to fall,
enjoying the cat and mouse aspect of our lives.
You don't know what to make of me,
yet you catch yourself smiling as well.

I gather this raincheck,
stashing it with all the others.
I will collect on them someday,
and make up tenfold for lost time.

Poetry: A Leaf's Tale

Swinging to and fro
on invisible strings,
caught between heaven and earth,
you shake like a lost ghost.

You took your chance
and took to the wind,
praying that luck would see you through,
only to hang in between.

You could have done nothing different,
putting on your bright red suit and
headed for your date with destiny.

A lifetime later you landed
and began the mission anew.
A white blanket draws over you,
but you begin planning the next thaw.

Will you be different from your mother,
or be the same as her and those before?
No, you're unique and special,
and will grow strong and true.

Writing: Moment in Time - Playing With Fire

She was a flirt, no doubt about that. He smiled wryly when he thought back to the day they first met over coffee fumes and sexually charged conversation. She was interesting in a way he found mysterious because he couldn't exactly put his finger on why she interested him so much. He knew that he shouldn't be so enticed with her honeyed words or the seemingly unintentional contact of their bodies when she was near him. She was married, so he knew nothing could really come from it. These were the facts that were in his mind, yet he was still interested. He was recently single and embracing life and everything that it threw his way, but she was untouchable. Only problem was that God only knew how his mind wanted him to touch that forbidden fruit.

He was not a cad; some homewrecker, so he kept his distance, but he never stopped flirting with her. Fight fire with fire, he would always say jokingly to her, with a smile smile from the side of his mouth. For every hand brush against his arm, he would gently push a stray hair from her face. For every explicit flirt, he would send a line to her that would make her blush all the way down to the roots of her hair. Fighting fire with fire, the only thing that made him pause from time to time was the knowledge that when you play with fire, you run the risk of getting burned. Even with this knowledge, he had nothing to lose, so like a child playing with a pack of matches, he kept striking a new flame, keeping both games, his and hers, and that of fate and chance, going strong.

He believed he had a good grasp on the score of the game, but he never know that the stakes kept growing larger. He was always told by his closest friends that he was unobservant and it would take hitting him over the head with obviousness to get him to leave the brink of obliviousness. Unfortunately for him, the realization of the true stakes of their little game were unknown to him and, without hesitation or second thought, he took her up on her offer for coffee and a movie at her house. He never heard the match strike against the book.

He arrived around nine at night on Saturday and strode to the door, perfectly content to keep their game burning strong. When the door opened before his hand touched the glossy wood, he finally knew where the game was eventually moving towards. For a brief moment, just as her lips touched his, he thought that he should turn and leave, the alarms were firing full blast in all corners of his mind. As he felt her hands grip the front of his shirt like iron clamps and pull him inside, the alarms faded and his eyes closed, giving in to the soft pressure of her moist lips.

She was saying something, but his ability to make sense of things around him that night was long since gone. All he was able to grasp was the feel of her warm skin against him, the taste of her kiss, and the soft touch of her cold hands against the burning heat of his body. The voice of reason in his mind was being smothered, but he could distantly hear it screaming that she had won, over and over again. As she pulled him into the bedroom or her and her absent husband, he knew that the voice was right, but he also knew that he no longer cared and sank into her fiery passion.

Writing: Moment in Time - Man of Steel

As he walked out of the room, he could not let himself look back towards her. He knew that if he turned and saw her tears, his resolve would fade. He would forgive her and the events of the past few years would only start again and he would end up spiraling down the depression slide once again. His footsteps sound unusually loud, thankfully covering the sounds of her tears striking the hardwood floor like bombs falling from the skies. He feels like he is walking through ankle-deep mud, his heart wanting to turn around and take her in his arms, kissing away her tears. His mind knows different though, and with steel resolve stronger than any rebar, it keeps him moving towards the door.

He dimly hears her cry out to him, but the steel armor he covered himself in holds true and dims her shouts to the sound of a small insect buzzing in his ears. He reaches the door after twelve lifetimes have passed, his hand stretching forward only to freeze in deepest ice on the handle. He knew that turning the handle meant giving up everything they were and suddenly, the gates and doors in his mind burst open, flooding him with the memories of their past. All the good times assail him, dragging him deeper and deeper into what he was giving up. Since floods are not water specific, all their problems bubble up and wash over him, pushing his head above the waves. Her voice rings in his ears as his rusted armor begins to crack and fall apart, but he knew the choice was made.

As he steps into the cold October air, he can still hear her voice, but it fades with each step he takes down that dark street. He had made his choice, just as she had made hers. The cold wind comes over him in a cleansing wave, washing away the armor with gentle hands. With a deep breath, he takes the first step of his new life, not knowing where it was going to lead him, but reveling in the fact that no matter where his mind, heart, and soul take him, he will be going there on his own terms.

Poetry: Plagarism is Only a Word

Ripping her off and taking it as my own
though used only once, I'll consider it a loan.
The thoughts unbidden and untame,
I find it kinda fun, almost like a needle in a vein.
I can toss and twist verse to my liking,
and give it my all without far to fall,
I can speak of heart matters of those of the soul,
I can shout about sex and drugs, or that chick with the mole.

Let it run, Let it run

I'm not stopping now cause my story's not done.

The wind blows chill, much like my heart
and those eyes burn, burn bright.
They send me swirling in a volcano of lust,
but then again they might be missing
lost in the rust--
covered statues, day in and day out,
sitting here with a muse to the right makes me want to shout,

"Get it done! Get it done!
I'm tired of your tired words.
Let us free and we'll never forget you,
until the next time we drink, which might be tonight"

Though she'll never let us go without a fight,
lets bust the tables and the chairs,
and the hearts and minds
for what we think is right.
RAGE, RAGE--
against the dying of the light.

Poetry: Love is Dead

Artistic brain-drain
occurring after loss-
when words fail and wither
on parched, broken lips.
Not knowing self from Self,
bouncing from warm bed to warm body-
Loss of identity and direction.
Wandering, wondering-
wishing on a shooting star, but
the stars above are ghosts long dead.

Artistic suffocation
occurring during rapture-
two bodies entwined;
legs, arms, hearts, all broken and
remade, though easily broken again.
Lost in a kiss, embrace; drowning in
raw lust, all stale and purple-
writhing under the dead dead stars.

Writing: Moment in Time - Brief Rendezvous

I slide my hands up her sides, feeling her tight yellow shirt bunch under the slow pressure of my touch. Exposing her smooth skin to the cool air elicits a soft gasp to escape her perfect lips. I take her gasping breath into my own as I close my lips over hers, melting into her warm embrace. Her soft, manicured hands caress my face as we lock in that eternal embrace. I slowly slide my hands up her sides and beneath her shirt, lightly caressing her flanks, cautious not to frighten her. The kiss deepens, drowning me in the warmth and blotting out my senses. I feel her breasts press against me, the silky feel of her bra pressing against my chest through her shirt. Her hands, all soft and perfect, lock into my hair, grasping and forever keeping me lost in her kiss.

I slide a gentle hand down her back, feeling her inner warmth, until I reach the rough texture of her jeans. My hands, on a will of their own, act as if they are intoxicated by the feel of her body and continue down that rough path. Softly, my hands reach their destination and cup the slight contours of her buttocks. My lips do not know what the independent hands are doing until they feel the beginnings of her melt into me. Her lips, cherry red and tasting as sweet, seem to melt into mine, in a gentle yet explosive way. Her hands, still grasping my coarse hair, push into me even deeper until they also melt into me. I slide my hands around to her sides, my hands no longer feeling the roughness of her jeans, only the warmth of her body. They continue up, resuming what they attempted earlier and slowly, with slightly trembling fingers that act as nervous soldiers before their first battle, slide her shirt up as they climb.

My lips, knowing the approach of the hateful hands, silently curse them for causing a break in the bliss they thought would be eternal. Her hands and lips, unlike the unruly set I have, act as one. Her hands slowly un-twine and release their grasp and slide around to my lightly bearded cheeks and gently pushes away. Her lips, although wanting the kiss to last forever, also release their grasp. She shakes her head in agreement, swinging her dark hair and her eyes look to me like twighlight oceans beckoning me to drown in their embrace.

My hands, after a brief respite, continue to the final leg of their journey and make their way to her perfect breasts. Thumbs hooking her sunshine colored shirt as not to lose place, the fingers and palms touch the smoothness of her silk bra, feeling the slight bumps of her hardening nipples mar the perfect symmetry of the two soft mounds. Her face betrays her as a moan escapes the confines of her lips and her eyes, which were locked in a battle with my own, close with brief ecstasy. Although wanting to linger, my hands continue, bidding those perfect mountains a sweet farewell, but a promise to return.

Poetry: Sin Nostri Proditor

Bloody chains of fearful reactions,
caught sickening in the soft flesh of reason.
Instant anger, hot and sharp, digging deep,
reason, cool and serene, cries out as it dies.

Delving into madness with silent steel,
pitching sanity into gravel landfills.
Vulgus publicus sifts broken-hearted,
children lost in the devils playground.

Away foul betrayer, shouts the six-foot soul,
hollow and tomb-like, lost in the confusion.
Anger and Degradation, kings that sit upon a throne of skulls,
laugh as they shine the key to our immortal prison cells.

Lies! Lies! You spew hate-filled venom about the crowd,
Anger justified because of your boisterous silence!
You! You! You are the foul betrayer, Six-Foot Soul,
stay in your crypt and wither, nostrum populus need you no longer.