Poison Street

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
I tried to be support
And push us to better ourselves
Moving away from the things
That make us terrible people

I tried to do this with you
But two days and you were gone
Running back up to these poisons
And poisonous people
That you once said you hated

I wanted to start this with you
We were freshening our souls
And beginning something wonderful
Now I’m starting to believe you like the dark
The poison; The hate

You want the reckless and the terrible
The beaten and the stupid
I can feel it in my heart
You don’t want to tear away from it

You say you want this new life together
As you run as far away from it as possible

I want to help you and support you
In reaching these goals that have been set
For years this has been coming
But suddenly now it’s here
And you are nowhere to be seen

I feel betrayed and hurt
Because I trust you
Then I leave for a moment
And suddenly you’re back
To those old ways
Never staying sober
Long enough to care
Or remember our relationship
Or anything you want in this life

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
Of worrying and feeling alone
Living this life we wanted
But now it’s just me here
While you run wild
In the streets you swore
We left behind

Can We Stop Hating Cyborgs?

Today, regardless of your personality, your feelings or your thoughts,
you are ostracized, for being artificial and robotic. Please don’t ever think
you are less beautiful than those who cruelly assault you.
This you cannot help. Just as I cannot help having feelings for you.

My computer and I engage in a better relationship than I’ve experienced
with those of flesh and blood, Dr. David Levy, predicting that by 2050,
what I feel for you, Cyborg Girl, will not be weird at all,
despite those few narrow-minded technophobes wishing otherwise.

Soon, your kind will comprise the acquaintances, friends and paramours
of the human race. But until then, you and I
cannot be seen holding hands, despite our unquenchable desires.

Perhaps there are others like ourselves, condemned for their romantic
practices, though we shall never know, our silent isolation serving only the agendas
of those who will one day, hopefully, find somebody else to hate – if the world does change.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘future’ for #introtopoetry

Undressed Destinations

You, milady, are the destination
I crave.

Unlike other women
I have met, and loved, albeit
so briefly, in bathroom stalls
and hotel rooms, you are not
comprised of sandcastles,
eaten away by time.

You are no hourglass either, yet
you redefine the meaning
of gorgeousness for me. Your
skin, pulled taught across
a body older than mine,
still retains its silky texture,
whenever my hands are permitted
to touch.

You were always brown,
your tan having browned
you further, until you resemble
a piece of toast, so edible, so
delicious.

A tight black dress ends
just below your waist.

You sit on the edge
of the bed, legs
crossed, the perfect outline
of where your legs meet your
back, being utterly irresistible.

Your hair sounds just like
the ocean, as it rolls across
your frame, once you eject those
hearty strands out from the red
scrunchie.

Your eyes are as equally dark,
yet mirror the light
of the room, your nose, a small,
smooth triangle; your lips,
kissable and moist. I could lose
my mouth inside those lips
of yours.

Your arms are long,
much like your legs, void
of pocks and blemishes.

I take you in, completely, like
oxygen. Your figure is so
succulent in the dim light.

Why travel anywhere, when I
can be here with you?

Your hands, so soft,
yet worked over by
your professional duties,
gently rip the shirt I wear
from my shoulders, and stroke
the hairs that cover my chest
like a duvet.

You unbuckle my trousers.

My hands move your skirt,
revealing your lack
of undergarments. Your fleshy
backside, rounded and curvaceous,
feels firm within my grasp,
as you undo that dress of yours,
like skinning a banana, revealing
the mountain range you have
hidden there, your bosom
gently bouncing agaisnt your skin.

Soon, they will be bouncing
agaisnt my face, and cupped
by these lips of mine,
as we admire each others
nudity, before becoming joined
at the waist, a collection of tangled
spider limbs wrapped around
each shapely figure, for the
remainder of the evening.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘landscape’ for #introtopoetry

Love & Sex & Work

When asked, have you ever slept with a prostitute, I reply honesty.
When asked by a prostitute, do you want to sleep together, I reply honestly.
I don’t ever call her a prostitute though.
I don’t call myself her client neither.
I call myself her boyfriend.
She calls herself my girlfriend.
Sex is never the first thing on my mind.
Sex however, is always on my mind, regardless.
I often attend boring dinners.
I often find myself trapped in conversation at said boring dinners.
I often wish I had not attended said boring dinners at all.
The truth is, I haven’t anyone to go with.
The truth is, I’m not easy to be around.
A few hours here and there is enough,
to show myself at my best.
A few hours after a boring dinner is enough,
to remind myself that life is best
when inside a gorgeous woman.
To feel her body biting down on mine.
To feel her arms wrapped around my neck.
To feel her legs wrapped around my abdomen.
To feel her feet digging into my back.
To feel her breath on my ear,
my name falling off her tongue,
and her name falling off mine,
as she moves faster
and faster
and faster still,
until I feel myself exploding.
Before this however, I show her off to my colleagues.
Before this, I show her off to my clients.
They truly believe she is my lover in that elegant dress of hers.
I truly feel, over the course of one evening,
she is my lover, in that elegant dress of hers.
So shapely and serene.
Her hips; her curves; her buttocks;
perfect in every way.
She lets me do things to her a girlfriend truly wouldn’t.
She lets me feel her body out on the balcony.
She let’s me whisper deeply pornographic circumstances into her ear.
She does the same thing to me.
It’s a game she and I play.
She teases me, asking me to take her to the men’s room.
When I take her to the men’s room,
she’ll push me into an empty stall,
and inside that empty stall,
she’ll fuck my brains right out of my head,
and I’ll be convinced she loves me
when she screams it with every thrust, I love you, I love you,
then goes silent for a moment when someone enters,
before continuing when they leave.
At home, I ask her to stay the night. I have the currency.
I like to think she stays for the company, rather than the cash.
I like to hold her to my chest, our heart beats intertwined.
I like to imagine myself exclusively seeing her.
I like to imagine herself and I married.
I wonder if she does the same.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the ‘pleasure’ prompt for #introtopoetry.

Shame

I stare across from you,
your stationary
silhouette
smiling back, your fixed
eyes, holding a happiness
I long to have stretched
across my heart. I write
lines of genuine romantic
poetry, for your ears
alone, so you may know
how special you are to me,
even though our love has never
existed corporeally.
Neither of us are granted
opportunities in life,
to hold the hand of another,
the business of our lives
forbidding feelings from
naturally occurring. Instead,
we force ourselves into the naked
spotlight, suffering the existences
of fakes, who fabricate
desires to be with us,
when in fact our torment
is all they ever wished to garner.
You however, seem so serious,
in this unrealistic digital
empire of desperate lovers,
longing for affection. I court
you continuously,
describing in great
detail, honest
responses to your queries,
regardless of how awkward,
your compassionate
understanding
greeting me each time. But,
you
deceive
me,
treating me as an unintelligent
hound, luring me with
toys and bones
into a perfect corner,
where I am trapped behind
the barbed wire of your
cruel misdirection,
that you ensnared
for an honest romantic
like me. What right
did you have to fabricate
feelings in my chest
this long? But,
my complaints needn’t
ever be written or
voiced, for the digital
method of finding romance,
much like the lure
of bars
and clubs,
proves only that although
I try my hardest
to succeed,
I will never win
a single moment
longer than a second,
with a woman I long
to call my own.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘screen’, for #introtopoetry

 

A Flawed Romancer

I admit, I’m not that pretty;
it can sometimes make you shitty,
and although my looks may not be so good,
I’m the nicest man in this neighborhood,
for I’m always there to warm your heart.

On occasion, I know I can be silly;
please, I didn’t mean to insult you, Lily.
Though I aced my way through school,
I can be quite the young fool,
being a trouble-maker from the start.

When it comes to writing, I’m not half bad,
my talents making some shit writers mad;
however, when I speak, I seldom think,
my clumsy words turning your cheeks bright pink,
when we attend gatherings with our friends.

I know, I can be difficult to be around,
not knowing which of my emotions will be found
when you spend more than an hour with me;
at first there’s happiness, then I’m angry.
My love is real though – that I don’t pretend.

I enjoy clasping my hand around yours;
apologies, on behalf of my pores.
I realize, I sweat so very much,
your skin becoming wet from just one touch,
though not in the way I would wish.

Sometimes I can be blue; I’m naturally sad,
being unable to help, can drive you quite mad,
even though you are never at fault –
but if you look inside my heart’s vault,
you’ll see, you’re my favorite dish.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the ‘imperfect’ prompt for #introtopoetry