lips like a river

hands like a breeze

gentily gliding over my skin

.

eyes like the ocean

in the winter in Florida

undressing me

.

goosebumps on my arms

like shivers from the cold

feeling your body against mine

.

smiles though a kiss

like the sun on my skin

that i so desperately want your hands on

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Today, we feature another talent with a nice, sharp edge. See the author tag in the comment below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNOHbyybh50

And, as always...........

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

on the other end of a camera lens,

sweetly sitting

or framed in curtains and flowing silk

like raindrops down your body,

flow to the floor, and

gaze upon the other side.

so, too, are the whispers,

like gentle paintstrokes

across your collarbone

they sit in the light, they all do,

with those glittering ceilings arching

like heavenly eyebrows above,

and lanterns dipping down like

hands to feed them light

cracked tile under their feet,

to tie up their skirts or their tongues,

and doorways upon doorways,

a maze of open rooms

flit like a bird

sit still and pout

look straight ahead

fill their souls

or be forgotten

immortalized on their walls,

displayed and beautiful and ornate.

more than just you, but

becoming the eye: the place for the eye to wander,

to sink its teeth in and pretend to know you

on the other end of the camera lens,

knowing or unknowing

and becoming a moment in the past

for someone in the future.

a grand illusion--

living your life in shreds

(forgetting one moment to the next)

waking up from a dream

so visceral you can

barely breathe.

and facing the faces

that you can't see--

can't quite remember

(blurred into memories weak with time)

smelling salts, perhaps

for the next time you

fall asleep, because this

time you might not wake.

might fall so fast into

the dream that you don't

remember why it is you

need to open your eyes at all.

(or else wake on shaking legs

with ice-lidded eyes and the

hazy feeling that there's something

you're supposed to get back to--

something forgotten,

or only just remembered?--

a grand illusion?--

leaving you questioning,

your life in shreds.)

It all feels heavy, all at once;

It comes and goes, but lately it stays a bit longer.

The fear of the unfamiliar dawns on me,

I am scared to face these infant days.

I relapse into what feels the most customary-

A small flower cup you gave me,

cradled in my hands;

One of the only things I have left of you.

Not every poem is about you, but this one is.

There are things I'd love to tell you-

How discouraging it felt to have

a job I thought I wanted, to think it would fix it all-

But it didn't. And how even my

successes feel like failures most days.

I'd love to tell you I got a promotion

At the job I only just started;

I changed rooms- I have sunlight every morning.

If we were still friends, I'd tell you about

The things I hated, things I don't hate anymore.

The taste of alcohol, sushi, coffee in the mornings.

I'd tell you about the sunroof in my car,

The tattoo that no one knows about.

I'd tell you I still love you, not knowing if I mean it.

I can't tell if I miss you or if I just miss

the feeling of not being a stranger to someone.

I don't want to fit in

With the mighty

And the small people

I don't want to fit in

With the pretty

And the ugly people

I don't want to fit in

With the happy

And the sad people

I don't want to fit in

With the privileged

And the poor people

I don't want to fit in

With the loners

And the famous people

I don't want to fit in

With the norms

And the inherited rules

Heard, unheard

Seen, unseen

Deserved, underserved

I don't want to fit in

With the hellish

And the paradise people

I don't to want fit in

I want to hold that space

In between

I don't want to fit in

I want to fade into that space

Between heaven and beyond

I don't want to fit in

I want to be

Like I never existed

I don't want to fit in

I want to go home

Where none of us ever happened.

The great lakes would swallow you,

the ocean not know you're there.

The Finger Lakes will cradle

and expand your life, and share.

Water a mile across.

Water an hour long.

Water white-capped in the wind

and glass at night when it's gone.

Stand beside it with some wine;

drink its bounty deep.

Smell and gaze and hear and taste.

Feel its breadth, then sleep.

Writers block can be a real pain, however, inspiration is all around us. be it from a movie, an event that took place in your neighborhood. But manly I use music. For every intense or loving scene I try to use music that will best describe what I am trying to put out. I listen to the song on repeat until I feel I have successfully written the scene.