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Where (spoken)words happen

4 notes

The F Word

Can we—

I mean…

Can you and me,

um…

see,

I don’t know how to properly propose this.

And I don’t wanna stupidly, well…miss

any opportunity that you might let me in.

So,

can we begin…

to…

you know.

But if you don’t wanna go

THERE,

I understand.

Its just that, well… I am a man

and you’re… whew

whoa man

such a lady.

I mean,

maybe

you want to,

but like I said, its cool if you don’t.

I won’t force

or provoke you into something you aren’t comfortable with.

It’ll shift us into some place new.

I mean…

only if you want to.

Can we…

would you like to…

do you want to…

be my friend?

Filed under verandahmaureen poetry friendship plot twist spoken word creative writing

4 notes

Morning Would

Morning would be the hardest thing to swallow—

particularly after a rough night of tosses

and turns

and sheet rubbing thigh burns.

Morning would be tough to sit with.

Morning would lend itself to other activities

should you want to be

entertained.

Should you want to start your ways,

your routine with something spontaneous and solid.

A morning would have power to change an entire day.

Though I’m sure an evening would in its own way, do it too.

Filed under verandahmaureen homonym poetry pun

47 notes

I’m Sorry I Got Over You

I’m sorry I got over you.

That I no longer dream of holding you—

I know you didn’t want me to but it wasn’t my decision.

My heart without permission made its own revision as to whom it would harbor.

My brain made it harder to resist.

So I’m sorry I got over you.

It didn’t take another to,

how they say,

be under me.

You should know that it hurts to be over you.

It was you who brought me through unimagined hurdles and taught me about deep love.

About sweet love.

About hold me, even though I made you angry, until I fall asleep love.

I’m sorry I got over that too.

I’m sorry that it no longer phases me.

I’m sorry I got over you.

Filed under verandahmaureen poetry moving on getting over spoken word creative writing love loss heartbreak relationships life time

6 notes

Cyanide

Sometimes,

my Love is like sipping backwash pretending it to be the fanciest of teas—

tasting other men’s memories and their moments.

They hold it,

scalding hot,

wanting really to just put it down.

When they stir it they hear the sound of sugar coated baggage—

they wishfully wait for their dissolve

knowing their resolve rests in a different beverage,

but they don’t want to be rude.

They don’t want to pursue a different drink in front of me

so they sip my love and none of me touches their lips.

If anyone else were to kiss me, all they would taste is your name*

To look at my hair, the hands playing in it belong to you.

The phantom of your being has left its clue and every man to attempt solving hasn’t come close and maybe that’s a good thing,

because sometimes, 

sometimes my Love seems to be like cyanide.

harmless on the outside.

Toxic going down.



*Tumblr inspired

Filed under verandahmaureen poison love poetry spoken word creative writing

12 notes

What To Do When You Know Its Over

After you’ve read all the signs,

done all your crying,

and realized your trying efforts are in potent vain,

pick up your spirit and do the same with your soul.

Its the thing to do when you know that its cold

dead

and scheduled to be buried.

Know there’s never no hurry in getting rid of the things or

unreasonable clings to so called distractions.

There’s never any health in pretending it never happened

but when its over,

there are things that you should do.

Daily remind yourself you’re beautiful.

And charming.

A worthy adversary in any life’s game.

Maintain an attitude of forgiveness—

its a privilege to be able to do so.

When its over you’ll just know and no return to the former will be able to reverse it.

The things done when over are well worth it,

but first get to that place of acceptance.

Filed under verandahmaureen poetry spoken word getting over moving on

10 notes

The I Love You Poem

I love you.

That’s it.

No hidden meanings or agendas attached to it—

you’re probably a cat,

or a sweater,

or my favorite day of the week but the point remains, I love you.

I love you.

But there’s more to that.

So much more in fact that I’ll never say

because it’ll change the way we… everything—

remembering the last time it was said you’re probably an ex lover

or an unattainable current interest,

the point has never been just… “I love you”

but rather, I love you, and that makes all the difference.

I love you.

The same yet not interchangeable.

The stock put into three words—

unbelievable to anyone who is able to say what they mean and mean what they say.

"I…like the way your colors make me feel"—

eliminating any real need to say “I love you” to my t-shirt and it feeling some sort of way.

"I…every day, highly enjoy looking at your face"—

It separates the object of my actual interest from the whole 

and therefore no one is told “I love you”.

"I…have become used to your presence around me in any given situation, whether park strolling or naked and have yet to take it for granted"

I’ve specified what happens and how it makes me feel,

again therefore eliminating any real reason to say I love you.

I love you.

That’s it.

No more professing, no more proclaiming or saying anything like it

whether you’re a cat,

a sweater,

or my favorite day of the week,

an ex lover, current interest— any of which I speak

the point remains, 

I’ve exhausted it,

and no longer care to mean it.

Filed under verandahmaureen poetry sarcasm love I love you words language cynicism life relationships

4 notes

To Do List (What I Want)

I wanna devour your sex.

I wanna just… put my face in it,

I wanna wrack my brain with it—

I,

wanna soak you wet with my words let not a thought limit what can be done.

I wanna bask in your sun—

settle in the deepest corners of your smile.

I,

wanna penetrate your soul from behind

and your spirit from beneath you.

I, 

wanna part your thighs and dive knee deep through to the inner workings of your heart.

I wanna know you second only to God.

I, 

wanna know the color of your laugh

the density of your thoughts

and the measurements of your intent.

I,

wanna preset your details in the satellite radio of my mind.

You are not of this earth.

You are heavenly.

I,

wanna better me just to have all of the perfect you.

I,

wanna love you

and that alone is what I yearn for.

Filed under verandahmaureen poetry spoken word love creative writing

3 notes

For The Bearded Man

This poem is for the bearded man—

damn.

Y’all are mighty fine.

This is for the bearded laugh with vibrations—

the kind desired between the meat of my thighs.

This poem is for the bearded man—

for the napkins in size 5’oclock shadow,

scruffy,

and Wolfman Jack.

This poem is for the bearded man—

for those of you that oil your follicles with the most natural of creams.

This poem is for you, bearded man—

please understand your attractiveness.

I hope you are catching this not so subtle thirst for those of you who decide to keep perpetual moisture magnets on your face,

around your lips,

the place us women tend to look at second.

This poem is for you, bearded man—

accept it.

Square your shoulders and let it do all the work for you.

This poem is for the bearded man—

for you who don’t mind being scratched like a pup into the deepest of sleep.

This poem is for the bearded man—

and my desires to keep moisturizing them.

Filed under men beards poetry creative writing spoken word hair open letter

6 notes

Playing With My Pussy

She radiates so much heat.

I think that’s why wrapped up in between bed sheets I like to play with her.

Curl up in bed,

lay with her.

Purring.

Playing with my pussy and observe-noting,

learning

the kind of petting she likes best.

In between folds softly—

just the right amount of rubbing,

playful strokes above her lips

strumming

at her whiskers.

Like an instrument, my pussy likes to be played.

And for the most part my pussy behaves because it knows I taught it.

I taught it well…

She likes to tell me when she’s pleased by pulsating,

wetting my fingertips,

meow making

with affectionate licking at my hand.

Playing with my pussy is fun and…

relaxing.

The existential kitty cat fapping between owner and domesticated beast.

My pussy keeps me company on those particularly lonely nights.

And my pussy likes to see me happy.

I love pups too but my pussy has me branded for life.

Dogs are a man’s best friend and a girl’s,

her pussy,

right?

Filed under cats innuendo poetry spoken word creative writing animals pets

5 notes

When We Made Love

When we made love we neglected the instructions.

We forgot that there was lust with just a convenient serving of real desire.

We made love without the fire required to activate all the ingredients.

Most of all we weren’t obedient to the Master Of Making…

We made love without taking our clothes off or making our walls soft— easier for penetration.

So the love we made was confirmation of our poor crafting skills.

When we made love we had yet to deal with the other bubbling pots on the burners.

We were students,

culinary love learners given Bs for effort.

When we made love there were so many utensils haphazardly dropped,

so many puddles left lazily unmopped,

plenty burns and bruises to the ego.

When we made love, as far as we know, we included some eggshells, similar to the kind we’re still traipsing around.

When we made love we made it how youngsters craft with Easy Bake Ovens—

ingredients made of virtually nothing and water.

When we made love we should have called for our adult selves to assist us.

Maybe then the opportunity to make real love wouldn’tve missed us and we wouldn’t be stuck pretending there isn’t a kitchen of mess.

Filed under food cooking analogy love intimacy poetry spoken word creative writing

0 notes

Adult Relations

He fingered me forward insisting I come.

Insisting he run digits along every opening my mind had to offer.

As if he could get his hands on my thoughts or…

insides.

With my hands tied I allowed him deep entry.

I allowed him to see in me things no other had dared to inquire.

I squealed higher and higher in delight every time he’d touch me

proverbially mind suck me,

every time he figured out something I tried hard to keep from him.

And because my walls were thin, I begged of him to contain his enlightenment excitement.

He had penetrated me right with

proper care,

attention to detail,

and gentility.

It had been new to me—

the spewing outwardly easily,

and he didn’t judge me for doing so.

He didn’t hurt me when he asked to go deeper.

He’d asked to learn me for

the rest of his life.

My first ever night having adult relations.

Filed under conversation talking innuendo poetry spoken word creative writing

1 note

What To Do When You Know Its Over

After you’ve read all the signs,

and

done all your crying,

and

realized your trying efforts are in potent vain,

pick up your spirit and do the same with your soul.

Its the thing to do when you know that its grown cold

dead

and scheduled to be buried.

Know that there’s never any hurry in getting rid of the things

or

unreasonable clings to so called distractions.

There’s never any health in pretending it never happened,

but when its over,

there are things that you should and must do.

Daily remind yourself you’re beautiful.

And charming.

A worthy adversary in any life’s game.

Maintain an attitude of forgiveness—

its a privilege to be able to do so.

When its over you’ll just know

and no return to the former will be able to reverse it.

The things done when over are well worth it,

but first

get to that place of acceptance.

Filed under healing getting over moving on poetry creative writing spoken word

85 notes

My Thighs Touch In The Center

I have no thigh gap.

My thighs touch in the center.

Yes,

they, rub together and cause friction

but listen,

I used to think that if they didn’t men would find me more attractive.

But as luck would have it,

its what causes them to want to fill my void.

Caramel colored earmuffs— they wear stuff all the rage in every season.

I have no thigh gap

which means that all my favorite jeans and pants have holes in them,

I see my knees most on shoulders when—

well,

nevermind.

My thighs touch in the center.

And if you think its better that they don’t,

allow me to allow you the most swiftest of exits,

to make room for one who gets its

never a closed mouth that gets fed.

Nor with a thigh gap will head feel like music to his ears.

I have no thigh gap.

My thighs touch in the center.

Yes,

they, rub together and cause friction

but listen,

if they didn’t

you’d be cold and go hungry.

So,

sorry not sorry for the way they squish and move audibly,

sorry not sorry there’s way more of me to part and grab hold of.

I have no thigh gap love.

if you’re so concerned,

why don’t you put your face there and make one.

Filed under poetry spoken word creative writing women bodies