Writings


As the years have gone by I’ve learned to appreciate the power of words. Being the introvert that I am I find it much easier to express my feelings through a page rather than speaking them. Whether it’s poetry, a novel or any other form of writing, the flexibility of a language is something beautiful and its evolution is truly fascinating. Evolving and ascending my work is something I hope to do. Reblog It


Pick One
Why do men? , The Odd One , Details , Vacuous , Feeling , Poltergeist , The Butcher , Ella

Ella

Me lláma con sus ojos celestiales. Y al amanecér piénso solamente en su piél, suave, brillánte y delicáda como una flor recién nacida. Si el mundo se acába hóy, estaré feliz al sabér que murí con la bendición de haber estado en su gloriósa precénsia. Ella és la descaráda que ocupa mis sueños y mis fantasías. Ella esta haí, en mis cláses, en el pasíllo, en la cafetería, en el trén. Pasámos los dias júntos y a la mismísima véz, mundos aparte. Ella es la manifestación de mis sueños mas vibrantes y magnificos. Ella es la única que me lléva al paraíso de mi mente. Ella, solo Ella.


The Butcher

It is no rumor that men think about sex every six seconds. My days are spent contemplating about the multiple ways I want to have HER. It all begins with a kiss, as our navels meet, my hands explore, I grip her tightly to become acquainted with every square inch of her skin. I want her to FEEL my thoughts. I want to bring them to life and use her body as the canvas for my masterpiece. With each breath she takes she will understand what a real craving is. She will get to know my essence, my desires and my power. She need not want for more after I’m finished. Convulsion after convulsion her body will be spent, depleted of all its energy. I wish to leave her lifeless, drenched in sweat, dripping with ecstasy, wanting to stand but paralyzed by pleasure. My name will echo in her mind and my face will be scattered across her vision. Not a word will be uttered for she will have no breath to speak with. I’ll be the reason for her sleepless nights, for her mental exhaustion and her physical desires. Not a day goes by in which my mind does not devour her. The way she creeps across my skull leaves footprints that don’t wash off, and in the midst of her walking she will meet the butcher that will tear her apart. She is all I want and the only thing that will satiate my needs.


Poltergeist

You sadist, you wound me, heal me then re-open me.
It’s sad to think you’re the the one I chose for this self-inflicted torture.
I’m your masochist, the vessel for this amassment of emotions.
I feel pain while you feel satisfaction.
My pleading goes unanswered.
I beg for more but wish for the opposite.
“Pain is love”, or so I’ve been told.
So I put up with it.
What once bloomed returned to a plantlet.
You’re drifting, further, I remain, waiting.
You come back for a moment and in that moment I repair the broken memories.
I have you once again.
Then the pain resumes, therefore the love resumes.
I’m not going anywhere, I’ll watch you when you drift cause eventually you’ll be back and it’s better to be yours than no one’s.


Feeling

Here we have a young woman, searching. Her innocence was pulled away at an early age. Demons came along and ate her head and replaced the contents with crumbs of false hope, love and care just to have a taste of her most precious possession. A meal that would last only a few minutes left a scar that she would wear the rest of her life. Blame this atrocious act for the walls she hides behind. Blame the men who came along and made her lose faith, made her forget that happiness exists. She’ll learn to be happy without a man, but that emptiness will still be there, longing for fulfillment. As she searches and searches she falls into the wrong hands. Women who, just like her, are empty, vacuous, pregnant with space, longing for inner peace. They, who resort to physical attraction, thinking their bodies will pull in someone to fill the void, are unaware that their minds speak a thousand times louder and resonate twice as far. Influenced, she now uses her body, and the demons return. One after the other, she thinks she’s getting somewhere, only to be devoured and left to rot again and again. Now the world looks at her and she’s deplorable, despicable, disgusting, a disgrace to respectable women, but nobody knows what she’s been through. Nobody is aware of the journey she’s on, this search for love that has eaten away at her soul. This path that has left her devoid of feeling, confused. At this point she wouldn’t know what’s real if it punched her in the face. And it’s not her fault, without guidance life has chewed her up and spit her out. Many have been inside, but she’s still empty. The void is still there, she’s still longing and now also numb. She just wants to feel.


Vacuous

Empty shells walk amongst you. You find yourself poking around, looking for some substance. Like those chocolate Easter bunnies, you bite into a person expecting them to be full of the same enticing sweetness that’s on the outside only to find out they’re hollow. You spend your days looking for your equal. The one who’s at the same level as you, or above it. You crave a challenge. You thirst for that intellectual step upwards. You desire that mental stimulant, the one whom makes you feel inferior. When your mind is full of deep thoughts and ideas it is torturous to know you have no acquaintance that will appreciate these thoughts. Nobody that is interested in indulging on the contents of your mind. It begins to get lonely. You know you’re not the smartest person in the world, but that’s the frustrating part. Where are the others? “Patience”, I tell myself, but I’m uneasy, restless, vehement. All the life around me, yet just as much vacuity. You often times dumb yourself down for those around and it tugs at the very fibers that make up whom you really are inside. Contain the hungry beast that lurks within. “They won’t understand” echoes throughout your mind. At some point or another you lose yourself, if for a split second, and that pain resonates around your entire body, tugging away at your dignity. Just remember, my friend, Fate will rear its heads eventually. Don’t fret, you’ll be at peace some day.


Details

Walking to a tune. Lost in the snare. Stumble. I crash into her. Coffee now runs down my pants. She apologizes. I tell her not to worry. “Venti Lattes come and go”. 
(She smiles) 
My day just got brighter. “You’ll have to pay for that”.
“Bill me”
‘Michelle Thomas, Accounts Manager’ 
I watch her walk away, she doesn’t turn around. She’s got that swagger, attitude, presence, vibe. The kind that’ll reduce a man to just a play thing, a hand-me-down to be discarded, cast aside with the rest of her childhood mementos, to be picked up once in a while at her whim. You can almost see the feathers falling off her wings, an angel from the darkest depths of hades, swimming in the River Styx unscathed by the hungry souls of men she’s devoured, but every part of me wants her. A Siren in pure daylight, singing her entrancing tune without saying a word. I walk away.
Stems turned to trees, their leaves renewed aplenty, my skin has folded and the Earth is tired of its circles. As fate would have it, here she is sitting across from me. It’s surreal. My blurry eyes see her clear as day, the fading sounds don’t mask her song and passersby can’t distract me. She takes my hand and says she’s sorry. “For what?” There’s that smile again. “Our little accident, 40 years ago.” The slightest idea of what she is talking about escapes me. I look down and there’s an envelope. “Go ahead, open it.” I do. 
‘Starbucks Gift Card, $10’

The Odd One

She’s at the corner of every photo.

She’d rather hold the camera.

She prefers straight whiskey, hold the ice.

She’s in a pony tail 5 days a week.

Staying home alone is her idea of fun.

She watches horror and indie films.

Her book collection is her prized possession.

She only goes out on special occasions.

She doesn’t keep up with celebrity news.

Trey Songz doesn’t float her boat.

She’ll take longer to text back because she doesn’t misspell anything.

Grammar Nazi.

She was popular in school and doesn’t know why.

Her friends invite her everywhere.

Chronic bitch face.

Yet she’s the most beautiful one in the group.

Odd.

That’s my kind of woman


Why do men like to watch women go through their routines?

It’s just beautiful. Not just the bedtime routine, every routine; post-shower, getting ready to go out, morning wake up, all of it. Especially if he is in love with her. He wants to just take in every detail of the work that goes into making her so beautiful. The finished product is all the more satisfying thereafter. Because the beauty of it is not just the physical outcome, it’s the effort she makes to look good for him, the care she puts into herself is a reflection of the love she reciprocates towards him. She knows she doesn’t have to do any of it for him to love her but she loves him enough to do it anyway, because when she looks her best, she feels her best, when she feels her best, she loves her best.


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