The Pretty Man 

*

For a man of your stature

You’d think I’d be used 

To standing in the span

Of your arms, less confused 

Less unsettled, not unnerved 

Not so throughly dwarfed 

By the sudden lack of air in my lungs 

That you cause

Your hands fit my waist, your chin 

 on my shoulder,

I always start at that small

 touch of your breath 

We murmur like lost lovers, like

 Star crossed the others 

Whose very existence tempts death 

In this darkness, I am allowed 

To believe all you’ve said 
There is a warmth in faith awry

In your arms there is a belief 

That no lack of conviction or

Fear in the night can steal from me

And all I need, is sacrifice 

One hour against the dawn, is all 

To turn my face and close my eyes 

And not watch the light fall on our wall 

To watch instead your fingers move 

In my hair as I’ll blind disrobe 

Behind me is a lone shadow 

You cast none-  

Pretty words rarely do. 

.

The Pretty Man 

© Yusra 

01.11.2017 .

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Here’s to pretty men who turn your heads inside out. ❤️
Also.. Good morning, my lovelies 😘

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Lessons In Fall

Pink, velvet soft, blushing, misbegotten
Dirt stained, so many flowers lay
Forgotten
The sidewalks were carpeted, the
Alleys were filled
Rosy teardrops strewn
all over the world
For whom have these flowers blossomed?
To be thrown away,
what have they sinned?
Why did they grow, so painstakingly slow
To be this chagrined?
Were they for us? Did we forget
To witness their beauty, before age and neglect
Set in?
Or am I seeing this the wrong way
– could it be
We owe it only to ourselves
Not for the world to see
It doesn’t matter who
turns away blindly
But
We all grow, so painstakingly slow
We are
Alive, and warm, and dirt stained
And I bloom
Only for me?

©CM
11.01.2017

‘Allo peeps. I’ve been away wayyy too long. Got some stuff sorted out, got some more sorting out to do- but I’m back! There’s a Cookie dispenser in ye corner, and a stack of poems over ye, and free hugs right here! ❤

Half By Dream 

Half By Dream

I know you by the shape of your sighs

By the reds of your skies

I’ve known you,

You don’t speak and I listen

I know you, by the smell of your skin
By the touch of your voice, I know you

There are timbers that hang in the air

Flakes of the sun dispersed everywhere

By the golden in your laugh I know you

As if your heart was laid on mine, and both

Were bare
I know you as if you were bared
Exposed to the elements, revealed, unveiled

The motes of dust spiral in physical symphony

Glimpses of the night, embedded galaxies

In the quiets of your storms, unseen hitherto

As if you were black and white, I know you
In the mark of every touch you’ve laid on me

In every disheveled morning we’ve woken up to see

In every scar and every secret I have show you

In everything I have ever known

I know you

 

 

©CM

27.08.2016

Make Me Beautiful

Make Me Beautiful

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wanted to make me beautiful. He made my eyes first. That’s how I could see him make the rest.

 
The poor God with the bloodshot eyes, kneeling before an empty pedestal. There was a vast shallow pan on the floor beside him, like a squashed bathtub, and remains of halfway abandoned creations littered the floor near its rim. His straw colored hair was my horizon for the first few hours. He smiled down at me and kept working. Slowly, the world gained clarity. Images sharpened an borders defined themselves as he shaped and prodded my eyes into place, coming close enough to kiss me while he carved my irises. Every breath he took washed over my face, and I heard the softly whispered promises on each of them, and smiled unseen. He wanted to make me beautiful.

 

 

He molded my lips, my nose, my jaw. He lingered for an unwarranted amount of time over my neck and my breasts, seeking to give permanence to some imagined perfection. I had no doubt of his skill- the world I saw was proof enough. Nymphs laughed at me from across the room, fawns lurked in the shadows, scared of the light, and from where I saw, gracefully perched on my plinth, I could see them all. He sang as he worked, my lonely God, working his dexterous fingers over my calves, drawing lines of life all the way to my feet. He would flit between my fingers and my hair, sculpting one to be delicate, the other to be heavy, to fall and cover me from the eyes of the world. So my hair fell to my waist- even obscured my vision of him for a little bit- but he fixed it immediately. He wanted to see me. He wanted me to see.

 

 

Ever so often, he’d walk to the depression in the floor and bring me some more clay. He made a seat next to me, covered my nakedness with flowers and leaves, and left enough place for him to sit by me, as I lived and breathed only where he could see. And he never stopped making me. Sometimes, he’d remake my lips. Sometimes, he’d rework my feet, and I’d watch his sunny hair gleam in the morning light while he broke off my toes, one by one, and make me new ones. For the most part, I was beautiful enough for him, and he was happy with me.

 

 

Till the night he came in, and sat next to me, and wept. He put his head on my shoulder and cried like he was the only man left alive, like his heart had seen unspeakable things and they knew no other language but tears. And he howled with impotent rage, screaming and lashing out at my inadequate efforts to soothe him. He picked up a trowel and hacked at my face, gouging out my cheeks, my forehead, methodically destroying every feature I had, while I gaped soundlessly at him.

 

 

And in the morning he woke up in a rubble of existence, unable to watch him, but I felt him. Slowly he got up, penitent, and fetched more clay, to make me again.

 

 

I didn’t mind. He’d make me beautiful.

 

 

 

Blitzkrieg

storm sky

 

Who do I hold responsible, for this summer’s sky’s rage
A fortress of clouds, imprisoned storms in a cage, of
Trapped vortices of fury, pinpoint pillars of shame
Teetering columns sway, against lights aglo, inflamed
By the whims of the sun, dropping groundwards in repose
The clockwork mechanisms undone by this sudden, grandiose
Bellicose display of temper, the winds mutinous, belligerent
Contentiously buffeting the trees, threatening, wild, truculent
While the thunderclouds swell ominously, pushing to burst in their bondage
Who do I hold responsible, then, for this summer’s sky’s rage?

Blitzkrieg

©CM
15.04.2016

Written for the Doubles prompt, Day 15 of NaPoWriMo. 
Here’s to riding out the storm. Cheers. 🙂

Lotsa wuvs,
Cookie

On the Rocks- III

On the Rocks- III

I drain the glass of whiskey
And let it fill me up
There’s a message in
a bottle, right there
I cared less with the last one
And I’ll care less with the next one
At some point, I
Won’t even care
I’m looking forward to that

I know I’ll meet you there

©CM
14.07.2015