There is a light at the end off tunnel I found it myself. when I had hit rock bottom and was begging for help. But no one would help they was tired of my game and it’s noones fault but mine go blame.. I had been in denial thinking I wasn’t that bad it left me misrealable, empty, lonely and sad! But when at my lowest. no worse could I get I started Praying To God for strength. I could only go up there was no other way. So I set my mind to it and fought ever day It was hard but I did it I knew It would be tough I knew I could do it if I never gave up. A lot of hard work with a lot of swears and tear. overcoming it was hard but I conquered my fears now I am better I have a story u Tell. I beat this addiction and I’m finally well!
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Oh baby
as I lay here and wonder beside u in bed should I kiss on ur nipples or just give u head. Should ur pecker get hard as i stroke it up and down should I scream out ur name or should I make a squealing sound.. what if u told me u wanna lick on my clit twirl ur tongue around while hard becomes ur dick. Damn it feels good eat my Toto just right damn what did I do to deserve this good sex tonight.. u want me ride h bounce my ass on ur lap I throw my hands behind me and give ur balls a tap tap tap.. u say bendover let me hit it deep.. damn baby u making me weak! Not wanting it to end cause we could go all night cause sex is the best when ur man for u is right!
By Mindy allen4 years ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 16 hours ago in Poets
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