Ink

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I dipped my pen

In the black of your ink

And watched as my intrusion 

Erupted ripples 

Along your once tranquil mood

Such an intimate sumptuous moment

I felt you

Coiling around me

As my uncovered skin exhales.

Your essence

Wet and enticing

Slipping between secreted places

Delicately crest at my tip

Begging to be sprawled

Along these white unspoiled sheets

Neatly lined and in wait

Of my next entry 

Begging to be the words

Of my poetry.

Olsfred James 2016©

Marionette

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Puppet strings

Bounded by the wrist

Made to entertain

Made to obey his every command

Dressed up

With smeared make up

Plastered across her porcelain smile

In her master’s theater.

Her first time,

Inhibition was the obstacle

The indescribable force stopping her from being… his

Now, the reluctance is no more

Confusing lust – his ardent uncontrollable sexual appetite – for,

“The love he never gave”.

His every touch is infectious

Eating away at her innocence

With slithering words

Reminding her, she belonged to him.

His desires spill from her cracked exterior

Like blood from an open wound

As a broken lullaby strains in the background

She dances at his will

Touching herself

Resonating under the cool of night.

He breathes her in like air

Resisting the urge to blink

As she grips the ropes above her head

Flurrying in slow motion

Dangling her naked beauty

Twirling to his satisfaction.

Behold, the perfection in her imperfections.

Mind games within the flick of a finger

Twisting away at his dancing prey

Playing softly until he’s done

Then she is propped at the mantle

To be used at his convenience again.

Olsfred James 2016©

Pleonasm

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Ignoring the faint sounds

Echoing failure

Of past lovers,

My heart created an illusion

Of a tangible love

When our souls connected.

The perfect cadence

Between chaos and calm.

A symphony of euphoria

Wrapped in arms

Where the mind raced

And endless conversations followed

Creating countless versions of You and I

Lost under ink blue nights

As we count pulsing stars in the others eye.

However, as fate would have it

Somethings are not meant to be

Possibly we met too early

Not yet conscious of our ability

To articulate the incoherence

In wait at the depths of the abyss

To finally shape the ethereal

Language of love

Our potential was untapped

Prolonging the suffocation on pride

Too absorbed in ourselves

To finally be left with nothing

But the faint echo

Of yet another lover.

Olsfred James 2016©

Mannequin

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Draped in the day's mood,

Somewhere I surmise

Between plastic embraces

Of faceless expressions

Reflecting synthetic smiles

Of projected emotions,

That our brittle hearts

No longer beat for the other,

And this…

This, eerily beautiful sight

As our muted eyes

Confess candid testimonials

Of the lifeless love

Proven with each breath

We failed to sustain

Between the void in our words

And incomplete gestures…

This…

This, constant masquerade

Passed off for something more

For the sake of the unknowing bystander

Willing to buy into the fantasy

That they could have

A fraction of the pretense we pose

And display for the world

This…

This, is nothing more

Than a mannequin love.

Olsfred James 2016©

Atrophy

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The love of art

Is an unrequited love

It is forever unsatisfied

As I am soiled with attempts

To mimic creation

With the rib - my pen -

Forging life in the form of words

Toiling endlessly between

Deafening pauses of incomplete verses.

Trapped in my head

Begging to be exorcised

As paper taunts me

Amassing my many failures

Against me

Secretly hiding away thoughts unwritten.

Pen snaps against papers back

As my jeered frustration

Resigns my inspiration.

Seconds to minutes

Minutes to hours

And so on

And so forth

Yet the torture continues

Atrophy settles

Between the ridges of my palms

With erupting calluses

Thick and hard

The seamless flow

In my prose

Has deteriorated

Aged with every letter spent

Every emotion scribed

As I am forced to live

Vicariously through the muse of others

Yet these words do not appease me

Because these lines are not mine

And I have become

The one forever unsatisfied

For stifling my art

For killing my creativity.

The love of art

Is an unrequited love

But it will forever be my true love.

Olsfred James 2016©

Supermoon

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The night whispers,

In quiet breaths

Of a seducing trance

Summoning shadows

From diurnal slumber.

Roused from their resting place

By chanting phantoms

Echoing between the silence.

The night lit silhouettes

Of motionless designs

Weave varying scenes

Forming thick complex events

Empassion dreams into the air.

The gleaming moon

With lasers of silver

Fills the void of darkness

Alluring the spectral and earthly alike

To kiss upon the mystic skies.

There's solace in the unknown

Eerily comfort that we're not alone

Stared upon by the twinkle of night

Or unseen plains of our existence.

Olsfred James 2016©