The Trip

The sweet concoction drips from the vile.
One drop, two… Ready or not the peppermint
sting penetrates our tongues like an ocean
wave chills sun-kissed skin. Eyes dilate
and our trip begins. A volcano of color
erupts before me; everything splendidly
illuminated. Holding my hand, you’re swimming
in the deep beside me. It tingles as if fish are
nibbling at my feet.  Feeling weightless,
vibrating pulsations of intensity rush over me.
The chair under me sinks below as I push
to stand from the purple velvet seat.
Soft like lotus petals beneath my fingertips.
My toes curl when my bare feet touch a
seaweed carpet dreamed. Dripping in
sweat not even halfway through the
experience yet. Blinking twice just to make
sure of the beautiful sight. I stretch out
to touch the perception I see as we giggle
and laugh. Liquid air I breathe into my
lungs within each gasp watching as particles
float above glistening. Rhythmic hearts
beating fast. Closing my eyes for a moment
to relax as you ravish me. Like a faucet gushes…
the wetness below flows. Your fingers trace
my body repeatedly slow and I fall into your
enchanting grace beyond my wildest dreams.

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The Beauty In The Attempt

Is it you that is fading away from me,
or me from you? All I feel is distance,
a slight loneliness… My days are long
as each mark upon the clock echoes
“Tick… Tock…,” within a maddening 
rhythm that never ceases to stop.
I find myself at a loss for words even
worth being said. Both fading further
regardless of which one of us it is.
If you don’t care enough to break the
silence once in a while as I travel our
once parallel track as friends; I guess
you’ve taught me a wonderful lesson of
how much easier it gets to let go and
be even more grateful for the blessings
that surround me still. Giving me an
opportunity to show my appreciation
of those who may not fully
understand me but what matters is
the beauty in the attempt. 

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Artist Kumi Yamashita

Ocean Love

Oceans of waters dancing naked
to the horizon push you beyond me
to the shore I seek. Your love rolls in
with every tide & is dry landed out of
my reach. Like a shipwrecked boat 
left to die, your bones show. Almost
drowning out at sea. Each drop of blood
shed is like oil & it seeps back to my
waters; killing me. Craving your love,
I continue to reach further, more swiftly
than ever before watching the moon
as he watches me. As the tides rise I
finally swim across to your shore,
pulling you from the netting until you
give into me. I hold your hand, kissing
you to breathe & to the bottom of the ocean
floor we tumble so carelessly in a love
unknown to be. 

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David Delamare Art

To My Mom

She complains of her winkles, I do not see.
And talks of her graying hair but its always
been the same to me. She worries over her
weight and the gravity age proceeds but all
I see is the same mom I have always adored. 
Beautiful and elegant, not a flaw in my eyes.
Solitary when she reads. Handwritten letters
in the mail every week. Someone who has
stood beside me no matter what hell I endure
or cry. How could I ever deny when a hug is
all she asks, but she knows me so well that I
have always been distant with my grasp….
I love my mom more than anything and what
she has taught me I could never repay, I just
hope when she looks at me she is proud of
the person she sees today.

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The Reality of Art

I have always thought this painting
speaks volumes about our society.
No one hardly wants to be real
anymore so they hide behind a mask.

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James Ensor “Self-portrait with the masks” 1899

Eclipse

The sun and moon
were never meant to touch,
to be lovers,
to burn to cinders
in the explosion 
of one another’s arms.
Yet their lives are interwoven.
There is a dependency,
a bond, a pull that can only
be quenched in an eclipse.

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Meet Me There

Meet me there, in dreams.
Lets travel the whole night sky.
Dance upon the moon until
we have to tip toe back down the
stars one by one as the sun peeks 
over the eastern shore wondering
what we were up to…

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Michelle Blade Art

New Chapters

You said you’d read me like your favorite childhood book.
Cherishing every word as they mimicked a story
you knew so well. While evolving over the years into
something much more. Studying my eyes as the
illustrations of my soul poured out in tears like 
rivers you traveled. Yet instead of flowing with the
currents of happiness you forced me to bend my pages
at your will, fraying my already delicate edges, tearing me
apart and leaving me waiting for days on end…

You’d left for good; our book never to be read or cherished
again. I rushed into my study, seeking solace from the pain that
threatened to engulf me whole. My tears blinded me as
I flung myself to the floor before my bookshelf, jarring loose
a book. It fell to my lap like a dove falling dead to the earth,
but perhaps it was more a message of hope than despair. I picked
it up and gave a wry smile. “The Secret Garden”: an unlikable
heroine, and how I could see myself in Mary Lennox and her
circumstances. The book itself, a tattered old paperback, reflected
my life almost as well as the story contained within its battered covers.

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Writing collaboration between Jenn Farmer (2nd part) and myself (1st).

This project was a lot of fun considering our different writing styles and I believe it came out wonderfully between the two of us. Hopefully if this is done again we can get more writers to collaborate.

Vowels and Consonants

Vowels are meant to be moaned.
between deep sighs and the
catching of one’s breath from
the ache of embers left burning
as our love reaches higher
through lingering kisses and
orgasmic spills until the
consonants roar.
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