My hands become of their own,
Throughout your body they are sewn.
Your head moves closer to my chest,
My heart inches near, it will not rest.
I feel hot breath slide along my skin,
Running up my neck then to my chin.
My mind pulses with encrypted word,
To all others it shall never be heard.
They can't seem to comprehend;
That this is real and not a trend.
Poor souls.
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Whenever I have an idea for a line or theme that can be used for a poem I write it down in a notebook. The poems found here are organized bodies that have been pieced together using those fragments. Most of the writing I do is created from smaller ideas that seem to fit together.
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