Anonymous asked: You are an amazing writer. Honest, open and free and every post paints vivid pictures in my head, inspiring me to conjure up honest open and free stories of my own. Im not a writer, but a girl with thoughts and who after reading the gifts you've unknowingly bestowed upon her very eyes, just might paint her own visually appealing stories through sentence structure. And for that I simply say Thank You.
Thank you for your feed back!!! I just write, heres never any structure. Sometimes I feel as though I’m just rambling, with no breaks and no breaths. Someimes the words just pour out of my heart that way. I’m gladd you like it :)
Anonymous asked: What are a few of your favorite reads? Which books have you learned the most from?
Believe it or not, I read inspirationals and motivational books. Such as The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Green, The Dip by Seth Godwin, and more but these are my favorite. I’ve learned the most from these too because theyre about learning about yourself. Understanding your capabilities and so forth.
In some way I feel like I’m connected to all of you. The way we pick back up and move and shake and groove. You’re all so different from one anther yet I feel like I can’t survive if one of you is missing. One will have a little of this when the another won’t and the juxtopostition of your deeds keep me coming back to each and every one of you. I’m glad you all know of each other and it makes my life easier. No games, no play. Just us. Call me selfish but the love you all show me makes me believe my value rose. That my worth has doubled and now, in this moment, I’m understanding my value. You all hold me so high. As if I’m perfect but I’m merely a vessel for what God has called me on this earth to do. My purpose is to help, to fix, and to contribute to you all in a way that I otherwise would not do. It’s love. In a different light. Its love. I love you all. In different ways. The ways we pick back up, and move, and shake, and groove.
Only for one night.
Imagine the one at the end of the isle turned back at you, watching you in all your white shining. Imagine him. I have one of those. He’s like a husband without the marriage license or the sharing of vows. He’s perfect. Cooking, cleaning, paying, watching, protecting. Walks me to my car, opens the door, pops the hood, pumps the gas, takes out the trash, serves up my favorite ice cream and feeds me with his spoon. “Here, taste this.”
We sit up late into the night after THC and tobacco coat our lungs and we talk. Conversations of the holy covenant, on and on about our deepest desires. “I want to love my wife and only her. I want to make her feel loved every day for the rest of our lives.” He’s not just talking, he’s honest. Mapping out his coarse of action to avenge his fathers legacy, he looks to change the definition of husband. He wants to change everything he saw his father do and it turns me on.
Closer and closer we move toward one another releasing our longing to feel love. Real love. The love you see in the movies.
He hits the hooka, I hit the hooka. He kisses my ear, I nibble on his. We imagine just this once that fornication is no more and that we are married, engulfed in our freedoms. We closed our eyes and were one. Breathing heavily in each others ears, I want this to last a lifetime. I throw my head back as if to motion I’m ready for the bedroom and he graciously agrees.
Now we walk together but only his feet touch the ground. I’m pushed higher into the sky, palms flat on the ceiling we are now among the stars. His tongue orchestrating the orbit. Down to the bed I rock my hips over his love that throbs to be fulfilled. We make sweet love in all speeds, fuck, sex, love, fuck, sex, love. We finish.
All that’s left are the mirrors revealing the truth among the fantasy, he’d make the perfect husband. But just for one night.
I think you need someone like me.
I think you need someone like me. I’m sure from what you’ve gathered in you prejudging thoughts highlight nothing short of crazy but I’m not crazy. I promise. I can assure you I’m merely crazy in love. But again, I insist that you find someone like me. You’ll fall in love with my drive first. You’ll see me and you’ll see how passionate I am about my dreams and goals. You’ll fall in love with that first. It’s going to look like confidence and it will prelude to sexual dominance. You’ll find that sexy. Then the moment I act like I’m too good for you I’ll tilt my head and seduce you with my eyes. It’s dangerous. I think you need something like that. I’ll go on and on about my deepest desires in life, my fears and my virtue. I’ll bombard you with the dramatic stories of my past but you will see clear in to the genuitnity of my soul. You’ll want to make love to it. I think you’ll need a little ambiguity. Behind my eyes most of the time is lust. You’ll see the conduction of hard work and dedication when I’m out but when I’m in, you’ll see me strip off my suit, slip out of my heels and right into your mouth. The stresses of the day will be released by the relaxation of the night and you’ll love it. Its going to be hard to figure me out, how I can fuck so hard and so thorough and wake up the next morning ready to take on my world and not worried about yours. I’m like an animal. I think you need someone like me.
The way his bow-tie compliments the structure of his chin and the way each hair placed perfectly in his beard acts like it wasn’t tickling my inner thighs. The angle of his hand when he reaches for the palm of his counterparts. Exactly how his fingers curl around the other hand and the form of his firm grip, it’s as if his fingers told a lie. That hidden in the shake was the gripping of my ass. Mr. President tells lies. The buttons of his shirt that sit pinned between the folds of fabric, the buttons idle and relaxed, playing their role as if they weren’t pulled to their very resistance in the rush of prying his body from his clothes. Mr. President tells a lie in his every move but one thing he can’t hide is the sex in his eyes. The way he looks into mine and satisfies my psyche with ecstasy, visions of making sweet love. I call him Mr. President. Always in his bow-tie. I miss him, the ruler of my free world.
P.S. This has nothing to do with Scandal and everything to do with him. Yo.
My time (my conversation with me)
I keep telling myself, “Honey, wait for your time.” the moment I’m done waiting for you and my world is so muh fuggin poppin that baby, I ain’t worried about you. When will it be my time to turn my head and never look back on you. Honey, my time is coming. I battle back and forth between calling in God and patiently waiting for time to change and challenge the destinations of my thoughts stuck on you. Soon, you’ll see me smile. You see me turn to the rays of the sun and spread my lips to the width of happiness. Soon it will be my time. When I’m the shit. When I’m shittin on you. It’ll be my time soon. You’ll see.
Sometimes I wish pain in your name. Not death on your life. But pain in your name. I live to love you and I love to hate you. You selfish pussy. How could you let this happen? Too much a pussy bitch to stand up and accept your responsibility. I gave it all. I bared my flesh to the temptation of yours. This is not my fault. You control me, like a puppeteer you pull my strings and make my every thought dance to the powers of you. Sometimes I wish pain in your name. How could someone be so vain, mean, and evil. You’ve betrayed me. You’ve conjured the warmest saliva and instead of healing the wounds you spit on my existence. I can not understand why in God’s name my mind still races back and forth about you. Why do you rule my thoughts. I live to love you and I love to hate you. I can not wait until you suffer.
He’s nothing but trouble. He’ll call a couple times a month to check on me. I swear he thinks I’m his little muse. I listen to his problems and hear his stories. Smoking too much weed, losing his job, he’s a little troubled but he’s cool. He has a way of crying to me without shedding tears or cracking a frown. His heart drowns in sorrow yet he strives and pushes to impress me as if any more energy output won’t kill him. He’s mad weird, and different, and thorough. He’s thorough. If he doesn’t catch me one week, I’ll see he called the next. I love that about him, I’m his little muse. He has big dreams, music dreams, and no one believes in him, hell sometimes even I don’t. Seems like he drives further into a fantasy and even I can’t pull him out. I still think about our times together. At the museum, in the studio. He’ll move his eyes from the sound board and rest them right between my chest and neck. His kiss on my collar bone. It seems to always be his place to land. To breathe, to rest. He’s the dreamer and he’s nothing but trouble.
I’ve got a problem. Something like run and tell the doctor. All the ticking and twitching and throbbing. I have an obsession with my femininity and I can’t leave her alone. She barks at the rise of the moon and salutes to the break of dawn. I have an addiction to my inside, with me. She beats to the cadence of an expanding chest cavity and the tempo loud on your forehead after you hold your breath to orgasm and release. There’s a sophistication with the obsession of her power. This is not to be mistaken for a ringing temptation of the diamonds between my legs. The judging eyes that run back and forth over her, no there is a sophistication of my desires.
It’s not the explosion that makes a volcanoe a fatal volcanoe. It’s the warmth from deep within her riches that determines the form. There’s a sofiatication with my obsession. I’m obsessed with her.