07-22-2014, 03:31 PM
Note: this is a spoken word poem. Please take this into consideration when critiquing.
A Tender Violence
It is.
Our lips lightly touch like whispers soft on the wings of a moth.
My fingernails trawl across your ribcage, rip tides in slow waves.
I pull your bones apart to make home in your heart,
bathing in your hissing and your twisting and the way you keep insisting
my teeth on your shoulder, over and over.
I devour the prolific VerySpecific expression you render fine,
watching from just below your jawline,
the way you burn my skin off with your eyes;
surgically dissecting my disguise, your fingers pry through my insides
dyed in hues of green and blue
inspecting but never expecting perfection.
Affectionate articulation calls attention to fault lines
and salient doubtholes bound by silence but
every word of your prose stitches me closed,
unclothed and open to the world.
Breathing deeply and weaving freely my soul,
unfolding control of the known and untold.
Within and without you I find myself whole
and wholly alone.
What is it?
These moments unfurl from my fingertips like flags of surrender,
bending knees like young trees weighed under too far.
Memories free from my finger reeds as if each were lit cigars.
How the smoke fills the room, blooming in moon-flowers
asphyxiating my senses. Suffocating me senseless.
It's a tomb. For choking. And smoking. And hoping.
Hope may be a beacon but it is too a disease -
a pathogen wrapped within reveries and dreams
occupying your mind with complete incompletion and fear of deletion.
Instead of feeling healing, in head dread they fester
and I'm a repeat star offender.
It's cursed treasure obsession pleasure-
what you have is still gold but it cannot be handled.
Instead channeled, measured in hourglass sand.
Spend it slow and tend it with intended hands;
it cannot be infliction of conviction or addictive prediction.
Take moon-flowers in doses to ease the affliction
Quit rewinding the time, tune your mind to skysigns and
focus forward blind eyes 'til you finally
Arrive.
A Tender Violence
It is.
Our lips lightly touch like whispers soft on the wings of a moth.
My fingernails trawl across your ribcage, rip tides in slow waves.
I pull your bones apart to make home in your heart,
bathing in your hissing and your twisting and the way you keep insisting
my teeth on your shoulder, over and over.
I devour the prolific VerySpecific expression you render fine,
watching from just below your jawline,
the way you burn my skin off with your eyes;
surgically dissecting my disguise, your fingers pry through my insides
dyed in hues of green and blue
inspecting but never expecting perfection.
Affectionate articulation calls attention to fault lines
and salient doubtholes bound by silence but
every word of your prose stitches me closed,
unclothed and open to the world.
Breathing deeply and weaving freely my soul,
unfolding control of the known and untold.
Within and without you I find myself whole
and wholly alone.
What is it?
These moments unfurl from my fingertips like flags of surrender,
bending knees like young trees weighed under too far.
Memories free from my finger reeds as if each were lit cigars.
How the smoke fills the room, blooming in moon-flowers
asphyxiating my senses. Suffocating me senseless.
It's a tomb. For choking. And smoking. And hoping.
Hope may be a beacon but it is too a disease -
a pathogen wrapped within reveries and dreams
occupying your mind with complete incompletion and fear of deletion.
Instead of feeling healing, in head dread they fester
and I'm a repeat star offender.
It's cursed treasure obsession pleasure-
what you have is still gold but it cannot be handled.
Instead channeled, measured in hourglass sand.
Spend it slow and tend it with intended hands;
it cannot be infliction of conviction or addictive prediction.
Take moon-flowers in doses to ease the affliction
Quit rewinding the time, tune your mind to skysigns and
focus forward blind eyes 'til you finally
Arrive.