have you burst into me pure velvet smoothness of words that not only rapture but en capture the quivering of my thighs the hope in my eyes the pure delicacy in which i dismiss unsettling rhymes and irrational couplets. you make me want you. come unto me pure knowledge and slow meditative thoughts i acknowledge that the strength in you had to say what others were mute upon empirical evidence to sway debates and arguments placed upon a balanced scale as the lady of justitia covers her eyes, weeps and wails you make me want you. to have you finger my placement upon crisp pages and hard bindings where philosophy meets idiosyncrasies and thoughtful minds flow into black ink and i would have you all unto myself quiet as it kept, my obsession surpasses the desires of any wealth. i want you. i want build up and elevate. go deeper, deeper until my soul pronounceable of  verbal languages, known and undefined captured by history reeking the scent of time, oh how i a

I'd rather have Jesus. seems to me that others fall short when he stands tall people run out of words where his silence is comfort and he brings light upon the shadiest of days, I'd rather have Jesus to save my day. Instead of "S" on a chest, I prefer the J surely, if he can walk on water he can fly in and scoop me up when I fail in the worst way And pain is immenent, and baby we all sing the blues But its nothing like seeking the comfort of someone that is always there and truly knows you. I'd rather have Jesus. I'd rather say "thanks but no thanks" to inefficiency, interruptions, indecent and pure lack of logical reason to accept that no one in the pure events that occured recent- have picked up their phones at 2 am wiped my tears at 2:15 and rocked me to sleep at 2:30 with urgency to get to the root of the problem and lay it in their hands so surely, I'd have Jesus than just a regular ol' man. I'd rather have hi

its hard to imagine thyself as a piece of rubble. a mere stagnated glass shard drowned empty of its contents relinquished and enjoyed at one time, thrown by the wayside to rot into a slushpile of garbage. its hard to imagine thyself used and abused, desired and consummated, not recycled or even polished to its true and original beautification. its hard to imagine thyself stacked upon flying dust and wet newspapers, feces defecated, a rising stench upon piles of soggy utilized plastic and twisted metal. not new, not fresh-just simply tossed and abandoned like a infant waiting a new home in a basket upon the steps of a foster home. its hard to imagine a place where even souls got dirty. where thumbprints are sticky and fingernails are traced with soiled dirt and caked soot from years of neglect. its hard to imagine thyself used and abused hurt and dismissed tossed in the trash and dismayed with pure negligence. sanitation comes and picks up at noon- but where he fi

you made me whole. that piece where you integrated slowly in a mass of tendons, bones and veins captured breath when depleted oxygen ensued, you made me breathe again. you made me whole. the intricate enveloped muscle that exposed capillaries, ventricles and the circulatory system regained the composure to pump and beat again you mended the heart through wisdom. you made me whole. made me speak where i stuttered under clanking teeth visibly nervous at how love can love so deep underneath pained physical mental intrusions and battle scar wounds you fought to save me so the bud within me can bloom. made me whole. -b.r.rivera 14 of 30 #30in30

I don't know if I'll be one of those Poet Laureates. still black and white picture immortalized in a pixelized frame, begging to be touched. have the audacity of Bukowski, soul deepness of Giovanni lyrical jazz of Hughes romanticism of delicate Teasdale to sing my blues. who will "discover" me? will the ancient scribes of paper stand the litmus test of time, acid free paper aged like the bouquet of red wine can I be translated in eighty languages spoken in academic environments recited in meter, rhyme and prose comparable with the genius of Edgar Allen Poe. my tell tale heart. do my words change and move sway and dance lift and elevate inspire and exasperate -me- or will you all forget the non-poet laureate if her words are not printed in ink? -b.r.rivera 13 of 30 #30in30

i am not free. can I blame the lips that have never been kissed like this unknowing of pure transcending within passion burning, desired within a blown candle a wish that you to finally understand, encapsulate and re-define what love is? can I blame the chest that has never seen rest, beating heart thumping, nonetheless incapable of arched back, nape of neck freedom rest seizing the night to form new dawns as sun rises to sleep filled nights-are you the blank state at which i peek to day to form a horizon naked with dew, moisture beads forming puddles skin to his to finally understand, reflect and re-design what love is? can i blame you? point fingers and have three shoving at me so I can rectify this situation and show you that the consensus agrees that two wrongs can't make a right and your arithmetic doesn't quite add fine lines and wrinkles, wasted years and wasted tears upon which eyes moisturize, fragrance of salt tinkles and i am what you though

-desire you, still.  i am the arm to which you drug the intra-venous and simultaneous chain reaction to the original high climbs untamed and godly free. i mean how I shadow dance in the attraction of your glance shows the pure dominance which you have over me. i cannot move. you hold the strings and puppet dance methodically, playing fingers ebbed and flowed in mere mediocrity knuckles en flamed from years of toying the enrapture which you captured my being. -a slow dripped drug flowed within my veins/ quivering from the weaning which i still latch on to you. hold on to you. desire you, still. -b.r.rivera 11 of 30 #30in30 http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com http://writerswrite.ning.com