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10-12-2013, 06:31 AM | #81 |
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03/16/2006
"Cyrano Reborn"
Using methods of spinning words and syllables into liquid silk I spend countless hours writing unending declarations of love Is but nothing to come of this? If I were a man of revenge, I would confess the deepest secret of my soul I would risk the world turning on it’s axis, and everything becoming awry To tell you that these words are not hys, but in fact mine. Ahh but to risk the recoil of such actions, such thoughts. I do not dare to render myself wounded with the fall out of such. So here I sit, body bent over the page creating images of scenic beauty in soliloquy. And as I watch from darkened shadow I watch this charlatan, this jester, play the part of King to a willing and blinded audience. But if given the opportunity Would I step from the shadows embrace? Would I take your hand and lead you off to dance? Would I be able to serenade you with the music of my words? Could I dare steal you away, you the belle of the ball? I answer my own question. My own musing as I make my way out to stand under the bright scrutiny of the moonlight. The sounds of muted whispers, the rasp of silken skirts float on the wind from inside to me. And I damn myself for my cowardice. If I had half the nerve I shall dash out my own heart lest it betray me again. I should retreat forever from the cruelty of this world into permanent hermitage. Yet, transfixed, I remain riveted to this spot, a masochist for the maker of my own demise. If only I could air the desire If only I could adore her, my lady in the open. And not be confined to the sidelines. I lift my head and gaze at the stars Damning the gods for their tormenting games Since when had it become sport to leave the hearts of the faithful broken? Since when had it become commonplace to fall prey to the sting of loves nine lashes? Oh but to embrace the sanctuary, the reverie of fantasy. There could I hold her There could I profess that in fact it is I who love her That the words of devotion hy speaks are truly mine. And as I draw my jacket tighter against the chill from within I damn the fire of my Cajun blood, and the passion it births. If only I had taken the path of the prophet rather than the poet. I could then be the restless walker, and not have to linger here slave to my own passions. And yet I wonder Perhaps one day could the balance be shifted? Could the fates decide in my favour? Could my luck possibly change? And if that day should come about would I know it in it’s coming? Would I know the time, would I know the date? And with the sound of a lonely bird’s cry. The haunting lilt of the loon; I am struck with the mark of genius The lightning strike of epiphany That I will never stop my yearning for her. And with heart pounding like rain on tin I turn and make my stand. And with the bravado of beloved Cyrano I step onto the battlefield. As I take her into my arms And my love for her profess. I know that if all else I may have lost the war. But the battle has just begun
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-12-2013, 06:49 AM | #82 |
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03/22/2006
"Bondir"
Diving into the abyss With eyes wide shut I bring forth Radiance Light Love With the touch Of compassion
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-12-2013, 06:54 AM | #83 |
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I want you,
With such intensity Right here Right now. My fingers tangled in your hair, the colour of the finest French cognac. I see in my minds eye Your eyes the darkest brown, so like the ink in the inkwell as they look to me with fire, with passion. My fingers insist on touching your skin. So much so that my palms itch from the want. I long to clasp you to me fiercely, taking you right here. Bending you over the desk. Having my way with you until you scream and beg me not to stop. Until both our knees are weak, and our breathing laboured. I long to be your vagabond, Your rogue Your dirty little secret. As in turn you become my little whore. The lines becoming fuzzy between Reality and fantasy. And as we wait to write our own history in grunts, growls, moans, and screams. I claim forever what is rightfully mine. Your body, Your, heart, Your soul. In silence
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
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10-12-2013, 06:56 AM | #84 |
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04/11/2006
"Opus of Existence"
I feel the music pulse through my veins Every cell becoming engorged with a rush of fluid This same music can also enrage me or invigorate me For it is the essence of who I am...it is in my very make-up I am the aria, the operetta, the composition of each striking note These instruments endeared to me for they are my fragile skeleton They are the end result of a fusion of passion, drive, creativity and consumption My only enemy, the silence that threatens to wash me away Notes of my existence lost to the tempestuous winds So here I write my final opus Kept within the enclosure of parchment and pigment Thus enabling one to know that I even existed at all And when time is forgotten, and civilization gone, these notes will remain, carried on the subtle breeze
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-13-2013, 02:25 PM | #85 |
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09/28/2013
Written for the 9 Word Poetry Thread
Pea-coat collar turned up His footfall Echo soundless Upon Wet pavement He'd give anything Everything For dryness A warm place Into the diner going Nearly colliding With her Eyes meet Electricity As he takes in Autumnal tresses And cerulean eyes Sodden apologies Repeated Exchanged In passing At the counter He sits Awaiting That warm Decadent Cup of coffee Pulling a journal Battered Worn From his pocket Opening to Painting after painting Sketch after sketch To the floor Falls a napkin Upon it scrawled "Call me sometime." Followed By a number
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-21-2013, 03:28 PM | #86 |
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04/15/2006
Angels and Devils rapt in a tumultuous embrace
Saints and Sinners look on with envious eyes While at the same time Their gazes are filled with suprise and shock Mankind labels them all Lunatics, Heretics, and Blasphemers in their confusion But what do they know of the affairs of Elysium? What do they know of life itself? A life in which they merely exist, yet never live It is here, that even the Gods have leant themselves to the foray The Aurora Impetus illuminates the sky of nightfall, brightening the horizon Lending an ethereal backdrop to the sensual dance of the seraphim and the succubi This IS the battle between heaven and hell Waged with Touches Warm embraces Kisses Sighs Moans And whimpers Laughter and tears of the sweetest release Echoing through the early morning skies Like the crack of thunder The flash of lightning This is the "voice of god" This is the language of desire This is the sweetest Ambrosia This is the essence of dreams This is the the eternal dance Passion and pain all in one Brought forth in the arch of a back The uttereance of a breathless sigh
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-21-2013, 03:30 PM | #87 |
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05/14/2006
A second's respite
As I look for my soul's anchor Attending and arranging my personal state Emotions in an uproar, raised to a dangerous level Yet the lesson learned Though lips may lie, actions do not. Passion is no replacement for Reason
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-22-2013, 09:25 AM | #88 |
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05/04/2006
Repeat upon my skin the touch of leather
Stinging Biting Caressing like only a lover could Touch the cool blade to my skin Cool as Ice Sharp as a razor Cutting away the inhibitions of a lifetime Leave me with shallow breath And quaking heart Leave me wanting your tyranny Bind my wrists My ankles My heart In a firm embrace Pinch my skin Pierce my soul Make me more than just your slave, your bottom, your submissive Make me YOURS Leave marks upon my skin in vibrant hues of red and purple Showing the world the honour you pay to my gift of submission Take me to the edge Take me to the brink And push me to break form Push me to defy you Test my devotions And my servitude And make me all the more stronger All the more complete for this trade This exchange of power
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
10-22-2013, 09:27 AM | #89 |
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05/14/2006
Do not presume to assault me further
With word, gesture, or deed Do not torment me with your false promises Those words hollow and meaningless Do not presume to tell me what I must feel What I must think, what I must be For those things are not yours to determine Do not try to persuade me into that trap again For I will not be blindly lead Do not push me, pull me or prod me For you do not control me I am my own soul, my own being, my own man I will abandon your darkness to step into the light I will awaken from the sleep that consumed me And I will become whole
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
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10-22-2013, 09:30 AM | #90 |
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05/14/2006 ....written through a femme's eyes
I studied you for countless moments as you slumbered, your short brown hair tousled from sleep.
I looked to the hardened and chisled features of your face, looking for the secrets they contained. The hint of a laugh, the shadow of a smile reflecting your love for me. Here you lie on my sheets, in my bed, so far removed from the asphalt warrior that the world has forced you to be. The world always viewed you as the "odd one out" The woman trying so hard to be a man. The fool in drag. But I instead looked at you as the normal one in a world of oddities. The handsome amongst the profane. I wonder as I look at your sleeping face, softened in the grip of slumber and wonder when did the hardening begin. When did the stone form? When did the gentleness take leave, only to be seen in rare glimpses on rare occasions? And as I continue to peer at you, the answer comes to me. It was when you first loved me. When you first knew that you would have to fight with every breath to be able to love me in a world that doesn't allow for our kind of love. And at that thought, my heart swells.
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
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10-22-2013, 09:33 AM | #91 |
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05/14/2006 "The Thief Of Time"
The hour foreboding
The sand slipping through the embrace of glass Promises lost in the fray Memories too As the sand moves to it's own beat It's own rhythm Cool and unfeeling Moves made that were meant to last Gone before the last breath is drawn So hold fast Enjoy faster Make each moment yours while it lasts Before the thief of time steals away with it
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
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10-22-2013, 06:12 PM | #92 |
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05/14/2006
Open my reason
Open my passion Assume to insinuate yourself Upon my skin Upon my heart Upon my soul Delight me with the subtle nuances that are you Writhe with me And under me Into the wee hours of morning Then promise me That you will not destroy me Like all the countless others have before
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Know that The Universe made you in perfection. And know that there are people out there who recognize this. -Me "Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." ~ Henri Frederic Amiel |
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