Tag: Writing 201


This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Release, the sweet letting go

Of all thy fears that lurk below.

A fair maid her hair did unravel;

Her gentle lover taketh her ankle

And did brush his soft lips

From toe to the curve of her hips.

Her nails she dug into his hair,

Entranced by the tingly feeling there.

Release, the sweet letting go

Of thy inhibitions that destroy thee so.

O! pain, thou turnest to pleasure,

Thou makest her scream as she fucketh her sir.


A Crack In the Ice

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

A crack in the ice,

Spidering out across my facade,

Opening up my secrets for the world to see.

A crack in the ice,

Splintering into sharp spikes

And stabbing up into the air.

A crack in the ice;

I’m falling apart,




Vanilla Planifolia

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Little yellow bottle,

Yield to me your fumes,

Speak of my triumphs,

My failures,

My joy,

My sorrow.

Speak of the man

I once hoped to woo;

Speak of sleepless nights

Spent buried under a million quilts,

My face shoved into

A pillow spritzed

With the soft scent of your perfume.

Speak of me,

Of my wrists and my chest,

Of my hair and my thighs.

Speak of every goddamned thing

I did to hide myself

When vanilla just made me

Into a scented whore.

Back to My Roots

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Cracked sidewalk,

Running beside overgrown bushes

That moan under the weight

Of immense unknown blossoms.

It leads me to my own home,

Where he waits alone

Under the stone archway.

His hipbone protrudes;

I can see it through his shirt,

Which I’m sure he’s sprayed

With his sweet cologne.

I can almost hear his deep groan,

Muttered into my ear as I attone

For having flown away from our safe zone.

Our Thunderous Silences

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

High school:

A cacophony of deafening personalities,

Everyone racing,


Fighting for individuality

In the midst of a war

That cannot end.

If we had nothing to battle,

What would we do

With our emerging identities?

In a symphony of adolescent instrumentals,

I am the piano,

Dancing quietly below the louder instruments,

Just soft enough to remain underneath their notes

But important enough that without me

The entire piece would fall flat

And be reduced to nothing

But useless noise.

I must pay close attention

To every note I play;

One misstep and the piece comes crashing

Down around our sunburned ears.

No matter how cautious I am,

There will always be the one line

That my fingers stumble over:

I’ve learned to keep moving,

Keep playing,

And smile like I haven’t royally fucked up.