Your voice is like broken poetry;
Drowning melodies and mild histories.
Kiss me, darling—and touch my lips.
Snatch my breath and push the limits,
Close the door, ask for more (more);
You left my heart crawling on the floor.
Addicted to the game;
Being addicted is another type of pain,
It's a blame game issued by two victims:
One searching for closure,
The other, for composure.
I need a riot.
A fire burning within our intimacy,
A delicacy willing to bear flames,
Games that are wicked but sweet,
But to the touch, you're cold,
Bold and enriched with corruption.
We bathe in silence,
Melting from the moon,
Singing old hammered tunes.
The vinyl continues to play,
And my words paralyze in my throat.
How can I tell you I love you,
Without being too scared,
Of the consequences?
Tell me how I make you feel,
Like a riot—I bet (better than the typical).
I know you're not tired of me.
Repeated fantasies,
Deluded scars,
Fathomed hook-ups,
And scattered stars,
I burn for you.
On the tip of your tongue,
Run the edges across my lips,
The ones that quiver below.
You're my shield, my protection,
But a killer in an innocent mind.
Kiss and kill;
Love and feel;
Burn and cry;
Too fucking high.
On the outside,
You're calm and collected.
But on the inside,
There's a riot.
YOU ARE READING
✓ | frozen
PoetryHere's a collection of poems and drafts that are frozen within my heart.
