You The stealer of dreams, The thief of hope, And the merciless pilferer of truth Have stolen from Me Years upon countless years. Decades of minutes Stacked upon memories I never had with Someone who could have loved me back Someone who's mere touch had the electricity to arch my back Someone who arms could spread east to west beyond a cartographers dreams Someone who's love bursts and permeates through all the seams. You The stealer of dreams. Flying high on could haves and would haves and maybes Past lives and wrinkled times now synching Womb empty with grown child no longer a baby. Me. The fool who believed it all. The constant reassurance in slick talks under hushed acoustic walls And cheap mattress springs, wooed by promises Of mere possibilities. We could of had it all. You. The thief of hope. We could have redefined bliss. Etched it in Oxford dictionaries scribe in pencils, visualize and mime in Pictionary Become the envy of the town where gras...

he must be a god. Exhume him as a cartographers secret fetish twisting lines and deep curvatures as mountains stretch forth east and west. Ripples and valleys more. Much...much more. i am his center. Enveloped in the sweet moisture of his breath fuzzy memory of auditory beckoning shadow his reign over me. the unlike cliche of deep sound  where it meets vocal command even the whisper of him makes me listen. I hear him. Mouth and lips more. I listen. Cadence becomes undocumented synchronicity the mere parallel universe where I once escaped from emotional purgatory. Could you imagine a yell? His raising of octaves would command oceans to part and separate the seas from the salt of the earth, counting grains to become glass struck down from the result of the Heavens a faint sound to open ears. He's calling- and I come. No hesitance. No second thought or momentary lapse of indecision. He is so much more. he exists as truth, and I am his philosoph...

A empty cup on a tv tray. Scent of coffee, lipstick of a woman. A unfilled journal. Scribbled passages, A forgotten lyric pen of a poet. A forgotten ashtray, Smoke of tobacco pull of a worrier. A letter in the mirror Sentence of the forgotten Remnants of what could have been. -b.r.rivera #23 of 30 #30in30

I want to be your disruption. Your inner breathing of how you challenged natural selection The decision to hone in upon undefined chaos and internal stimuli. I am your squiggly lines on acid free paper Brainstorms in thunder and rain Freezing cold hail dropped on a desert reserved for miraculous sustenance. I want to be within you, as you. I want to ripple your waves and have the this and that of you stir up as a complicated recipe where grams are immeasurable and teaspoons come to the lips as a sweet indulgence of a kiss. I want to be your disruption. I want to eject the stillness of your enraged spirit cast fire on the doused flames and be your Phoenix rising. I want to dwell within you. I like how the hands of you move from tingles and electric buzz to raise goosebumps within a simplistic fuss. I am your confusion. Your hues of shades discolored from the past and penciled outside the lines with broad brush strokes. Have your ink dwell within my pen and your lines of...

I stepped on a butterfly broke its wings shattered its luminescent arms transcended solely made for air distance to ride in the wind. Veins, exposed blood freely now broken pixelated dots of red crimson delight shattered on a blade of glass next to my heel. I was not thoughtful. purely clumsy and self absorbed as I made my way into my path and buried a creature into another. innocent lost. could not have picked its wings voluntarily knowing that each was put there lovingly by time caressed in a cocoons nest. danced with time, laden with metamorphosis and fruitful bliss bearing an entangled chrysalis engulfed out of the need to grow. birth. reborn. in a next lifetime. i stepped on a butterfly. killed its lighthearted dance from a low hanging branch suckling the nectar off a fallen flower. how... appropriate. nearly serendipitous if a love was to blow a kiss and i was to miss it based on a fallen flower and P...

i want to own you. the dust collected upon time swinging from crystal inflected prisms swaying to the to and fro of unorganized drafts from my home. have your light burst into a thousand reflections giving naturalness to cheeks and brows gathered under holiday dinners and special get-togethers. i want to dismantle you piece by piece have your inner workings cleaned by professional staff trained in care and tenderness of golden arches and mahogany woods, marble tile and smooth floors. to have you would mark my reign. the dictators success of tireless nights forged with forgotten memories unclaimed by eighty hour work weeks and missed moments that were pivotal in my life. to have you, i would give this up. forget about the reverberating silence within the home and acoustic walls filled with Bach only to keep the pristine dog company. to have you would mark my climb to the ladder; the descent too far to see as the lonely ants below scatter to work for me. Thos...

it started with a kiss. the magnetic brush of skin eclectic and euphoric magnetic folds of lips encompassed in shallow tongue swirling in the this and that of what annunciation  and mispronounced vowels stuttered from the aftershock of what just occurred. it started innocent. fresh and virgin white clinging to dewy rain and barefoot sensations of raw earth and untouched centers. what became more than  the silken cherry burst with intricate feelings reserved for magical lovers and the anonymity of superiority of what shared becomes re-lived in past memories re-told. it began sweet. the dulce of the leche goodness frothed over from bubbling temperatures rising to the core beads of sweat tickling the inner folds and untouched regions upon the nape of the neck crawling to the curvature of the spine enlongating the time where your finger caresses the newness of what what supposed to be clueless after-glowing of what i told him he gave me. but he did not. this ...

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...

she is a sleeping giant. awakened only by unfamiliar scents and environments clinging to cancerous lies and stories unfolded upon the moonlight. a shift-taker. a compromised representative of thyself trying to hold onto what is new out of the old what is golden yet does not hold the spark that a candle can light to it. she preys. in secret, she bounces from hidden sex to hidden sex stalking the naivete of any man willing to uncover beyond the sheets beyond her being in heat beyond the bitch that she claims is her freak. she pounces. clearly attracted to champagne showers and cheap bottles of nuvo a barter system where values exchange for monetary items education is lost within the swirl of alcohol upbringing is adhered to deprivation of spirit and a soul cleanse super-ceded the anonymity of how she wears it. can she be called any other name? she, like minion answers to many titles fighting to em-battle the sin that is hands idle skin flesh and beauty endless p...

In his eyes, I am pure Goddess. Alcmene, the mother of Hercules strength and beauty designed and redefined to even at the end of life, I am worshipped. Within this biological being launching a thousand ships is comparable to the sway of my hips the verb of love. beyond the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh, I reign supreme- The mighty Aphrodite, adorned with white garments/crown of gold personified by Homer, an ancient tale to be told. I am Neith rage as a war goddess yet a weaver of dreams and silk from the gift of sight ...and as day kisses the sky goodbye As moon Goddess Artemis, I rule the night. Giving birth to crickets humming at summer's heat, dewy mornings and restful sleep- In his eyes, I am pure Goddess. Recognizing my name to be synonymous in the eternal womaness that even fellow Queen Maya internalized to be, "Phenomenal Woman" I am she. and in all fairness, I balance the scales of justice as Astrea blind to false tales, aligned with...

my worth measured in honey thick thighs and swinging hips movement and magnetization within the males lick of the lips my worth calculated by Hershey kiss nipples and cleavage exposed (bounce) make ripples of human flesh re-defined and slow to climb corporate ladders and executive suits when brain matter and intelligence is comparable to the next man hidden sex whom calls my thinking "cute." my worth balanced in the tangible ankles adorned with jewelry nape of neck perfumed with the secret of Victoria, my waist accentuated surely with g-strings and thongs legs, high heels and ached feet beneath the the sculpted legs long my worth counted and scrutinized ass plentiful and mocha chocolate skin hypnotized rhythms of bass movement in music videos hair dancing off of beats as I am called a hoe. bitch please there has to be more than this to me i am more than the calculation definition measurable and comparison driven societal degree in which they see me i am woman. no cliche of he...