Realness
Fingers moving quickly though there’s no feeling anymore
No emotions drip into me as I watch anymore except disgust snd shame
Awkwardness of being a Peeping Tom, regret of even trying.
Porn lost its zeal years ago when I found true feeling and desire.
Porn used to know where to go, using the map of my body well,
But it must’ve lost its guide since ir just misses completely
Leaving me sweaty and confused and so very numb at the end.
My escape has been tainted, washed away by passion and desire.
I find myself sighing and tensing at the thought of touch,
The imagined feeling of someone laying on top of me,
Warmth pressing against me and reminding me that I’m not alone.
I am loved, someone real loves me and I can feel his pulse and his skin
His sweat is a suave film that sticks to me, marking me.
I’m his, I’m someone’s, someone wanted and chose me.
But I’m no one’s and that leans onto me as I finish,
Running my fingers through sweaty pubic hair and sighing,
Biting my tongue to hold back the hot, regretful tears.
I’m just a lonely hairy college student in a frigid bed who needs a shower.
The Lonely
The torturing hour has become torturous as I lie in bed with my thoughts. There was a time where this time three years ago, there would be something looped around my neck or blood trickling down a canvas of brown. I can't anymore, yet the thoughts straddle me, tempting me with its rotting sent and captivating soulless eyes. I was once soulless like it and now that I've dipped into the River Styx, I can feel hee discouraging me with every bad thought. Yet she knows that the weeks waning into months are slowly driving me insane and that all I can see are my old friends. I take inventory of the blades every night so I know where to run when my soul sleeps in and the urges take over and drag me by my puppet strings back into the abyss.
20 years
I don’t have much experience when it comes to death. My grandfather on my father’s side died before I was born. Funny, isn’t it. He lived through a war, through battles, through heartbreaks, through pain and joy and anger, only to be brought down by his own body.
For my grandfather it was his heart that gave him away. The treachery of his own organ was his inevitable undoing. He had the first attack at 49. Far too young, far too early. But he survived. It was the second one that took him. 69. 20 years later. Long enough to watch my dad grow up, to watch him begin to take shape into the semblence of a human being. My dad was 20 years old when he lost his father.
Sometimes, when I was little, my dad would tell me stories about my grandfather. Stories that made me giggle till my chest ached, stories that made me want to cry, stories that made me long to know this man, this man whose’s blood courses through my veins.
My dad says he would have liked me. Me, my headstrong, stubborn, frustrating self. He says I would have liked him too.
My dad had a heart attack at 53. The betrayal, as it turns out, was not due to the smoking, or high blood pressure, or multitude of unhealthy habits my grandfather had. No. Genetics, their own DNA was the cause. Undone by the essence of their being. But he survived.
And they pump him full of pills and treatments and strategies and appointments. But he is still my dad. But for me, the thing that changed most is what I fear. I fear history. I fear DNA. And I wonder if I will have 20 more years with him.
So, how would I like to die? I think the answer is obvious. I don’t want to. I don’t want my heart to stop beating. I don’t want to lie, cold, silent, unmoving on a metal tray. Blue lips, grey skin, decaying body.
I want to live! I want to see the Northern lights and travel to Greece and climb a mountain and swim the depths of the ocean. I want to live!
Inevitably, I’m going to die. One day. One day I will stop running and singing and jumping and writing. But until then, until my life is taken from me, I’m going to close my fingers tight around every moment of existence. And death be damned, I choose to live.
Con(sense)ual
"But, we aren't having sex..."
Aren't we?
The way your eyes caress me, the way your words undress me
The way our hearts make love in plain sight
The way our souls connect in the night
In the day
The way
You hold me with your thoughts
the way your secret longings and fears penetrate my own
Your attention and compassion kiss me so sweetly
and I melt beneath the touch of your listening ears
The delicious foreplay of a "Good morning" text
And the satisfying climax of "I love you. Good night" on my screen
This is sex like I’ve never seen
If only
If only I had
The courage
to runaway with you
There is nothing
I wouldn’t do,
To see your smile
Every day
To hear your laugh
As we play
To feel your skin
Touch mine again
And lay with you
Until the end
Can’t you see?
I am pouring
My heart out
to you
There is nothing that I wouldn't do,
To hear your voice
Once again
For us to get a chance
To be best friends
To feel the "deep connection"
We've always had
Is it too late?
I will wipe your tears
From your face
When you are sad
I'll hold you close
On the days
That you feel bad
I just want to be with you
There is nothing that I wouldn't do
I'll poke that dimple
On your face
Forgive you for
All your mistakes
And when you need
A shoulder to cry on
No matter
Day or night
I'll be the one
right by your side
If only I hadn't just told you
I just want to be with you
Please tell me you want to be with.
me too.
Written by Michele Del Russi
Sweet and sour
A beauty so exquisite
Peace and purity
Outlined in sparkling bits of light
Filled with the truest form of love and empathy
Finding Spurts of lust and jealousy
Sprinkled with tainted lies
Accompanied by pain so excruciating
Scattered pieces of a heart once whole dies
Layered with strength and courage
Swirled with hope and dreams
Unlimited knowledge
Topped with faith and belief
Does MY SOUL sound good enough to eat?
Written by Michele Del Russi
His Love
For years you broke her heart, eventually turning the broken pieces to dust
Ripping her apart and destroying her soul, piece by piece
Hiding her from the world,
so no one would ever know
How broken she was inside,
covering up her screams and cries
Slowly manipulating her mind,
to make her believe
That is love...
Written by Michele Del Russi
Insight for Writing
May 27 Quote: Ray Bradbury
“Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as a writer.”
Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yoe8pLhfFys&feature=youtu.be
WIKI: Ray Douglas Bradbury (Aug. 22, 1920 – June 5, 2012) was an American author and screenwriter. He worked in a variety of genres, including fantasy, science fiction, horror, and mystery fiction. Predominantly known for writing the iconic dystopian novel “Fahrenheit 451” (1953), and his science-fiction and horror-story collections, “The Martian Chronicles” (1950), “The Illustrated Man” (1951), and “I Sing the Body Electric” (1969), Bradbury was one of the most celebrated 20th- and 21st-century American writers. While most of his best known work is in speculative fiction, he also wrote in other genres, such as the coming-of-age novel “Dandelion Wine” (1957) and the fictionalized memoir “Green Shadows, White Whale” (1992).
Published May 27, 2019