First topic!! I wrote something while drunk, and decided to make something out of it. I've never written before, nor do I know anything about poetry, so this was fun. I'll post my writing, and people post their own!


'The Complex Relationship between Lust, Love, and Desire.'


Part 1:

'An Outside Perspective'

"The internal desire of one, beckoning those around them.
Who is the one in control?
The endless cycle of lust; an excuse for diluted love.
If not love, what is to be desired?
Outside of the realm of love, there are escapes.
The ability to review those around them; entertainment comes to those who wait.
And what to the one who has neither lust nor love? What purpose in life requires neither?
No such objective may exist; the endless maze that is the entangled dance of love and lust overpower them.
What else in life matters?

Degradation. Sadistic pleasure. Is there lust without love?
Perhaps neither are as entangled as one could expect.

The endless cycle of lust; there is no excuse for diluted love."


Part 2:

'Diving Deep into the Lake'

"The ocean of lust. Deep, under the lake of desire.
They who stay in love, will always drown under lust.
Is there a difference?

Lust; an intimate reach into love. There can be lust without love, but love without lust is rare.
Why? Why must an ocean surpass the lake?
Under the ocean, what awaits those who drown?

Lust intoxicates. Lust drowns.
What is lust, without desire?
Does desire have purpose without lust?

The lake upon an ocean. The ocean under the lake. Similar, yet distinct.
Those who dive deep into love, drown under lust.

It isn't a lake. It's an ocean."


Part 3:

'Frozen'

"Bent. Broken. Chipped. Cracked.

The lake that's not a lake; frozen over an ocean.
There is no such thing.
Why hide from desire?
What point is there in wait?
If not entirely desire?
If no rhythm is set.
If no drums beat.
Can it really be called an ocean?

The lack of lust can ruin love.
If love were to freeze over, what would it be to lust?

Frozen. 8 inches. What is ice, without water?
Drought.
The lack of water.

Can an empty vessel freeze over?"


Part 4:

'Empty'

"End. Is end another beginning?
The beginning will always lead to an end, regardless of the journey.
What is there to see?
What is there to explore?
Why put effort into your own, if not done?
Why must it be you?
Why should it be you?
Undeserved.
The drought of an ocean affects the lake.
The lake which makes an ocean.

Why are they separate?

Dependency. Those who depend on lust are frail.
Empty.
The lack of love.

Why love, if it is more desirable to lust?

What is lust?

Why is lust?

What is lust; for love to have disappeared?

Empty."


Part 5:

'The Masks Behind the Veil'

"Behind the veil; what lies beneath?
The interchangable masks.

Anything for lust; if not decency.
Lust is eternal. Lust is the driving force behind action.

Behind lust, there is desire.
What is beyond desire?
The interchangable masks.

The desire for love. What drives those to love?
What is beyond love?
The interchangeable masks.

The endless need for compensation. The masks are fragile; chipped.

The lake froze over.
The ocean froze over.

The masks have chipped, as the wind dries clearer.

The ocean was wet again."


Part 6:

'The Distortion of interchangeable Masks'

"Wet.

Rain.

Water.

Downpour.

Downpour unto what?
An ocean?
Or is it a lake?

The interchangeable masks.
The final resting place of love; why?

Red. Black. Green. Yellow.

The distortion of identity; why?

What makes a lake?
What makes an ocean?

The interchangable masks.
The first birthing of lust;
how?

Red. Black. Green. Yellow.

The distortion of identity; of interchangeable masks.

What's done is done; matters settled.

The love was lusting again."


Part 8:

'Finale'

"Down. Underneath the waves of lust.

What is further?

Down. Underneath the shore of love.

Wet. Moist. Warm. Delicious.

The lake is an ocean.

The ocean is a lake.

Both are together as one. Love and lust, together.

Beauty.
What is beauty?

Beauty is the truth, and the truth is wet.

Wet. Moist. Warm. Delicious."


Hope you guys enjoyed! Give some criticism, would you?
Post your own writings here, too! NSFW or not!

I
The licking, slowly ticking,
never thinking. I’m (s)inking
in His hands of crawling plan(t)s
that claw demands in my (g)lands.

His spittle but a dribble,
just a little remittal
into fun that’s never done
where nothing’s won, honey bun.

And His lips are full of dips
as deep as crypts at their tips,
speaking low, sn(e)aking a blow
down from below—a bill(ow)
from His home in that old tome
as old as Rome; yet in foam
does He see an open sea,
a (cra)zen spree full of pre-.

My Father doesn’t bother
with the fodder that caught her.
Connect us then directness.
Like a nexus of hexes.
Or a vice you halted twice,
though to (ent)ice felt quite nice.

I confess, no, I profess
this feeling’s less than blankness,
though His tongue has really flung
and really sung to my lung.
I want more than once before.
You can’t restore one that’s s(w)ore.

II
Now my sight ignores her (p)light.
At dead of night I just might
take her (in), just for a spin,
extract her din with a grin—
isn’t mine; it’s serpentine,
looking for brine—turpentine.

She was born and then forlorn.
I will adorn with His horn.
It’s a must, and so I (th)rust
as by a gust to her bust.

Lavender, the smell of her.
She’s just a blur of tinder
igniting, so exciting,
so inviting a k(night)ing.

A whimper, so I whisper,
“Do not temper the kemper.”
Internal world of vernal
bliss eternal, yet to dull.

Now I hold her as I’m told.
Her skin is gold, so I mold
and I knead the thing I need
in all my greed, all but freed.

I feel none, for I’m His son.
It’s all begun; I can(’t) run.
I’m his own, right down to bone
and war(bled) tone. Hers a moa(n).

He loves it. Tells me in spit—
what He calls grit. A fair bit
spurs me on. Layers I don
(c)over my s(paw)n so the fawn
(t)here can rest, the drool (sup)pressed
what made her stressed. He’s impressed
with the way I made her sway
and made her pray to be pre(y).
His (cer)vine form touches mine.
He makes a sign. Time to din(e).

III
In He goes through her wi(n)dows
painted with woes, scented rose,
to her core, the one I tore
and tu(r)ned to gore evermore.

Through her back he took a sack
with an attack that I lack.
Past His teeth, it goes beneath.
She’s now a wreath on His heat(h)
with a leak; a bloodied freak;
a squawking beak that can’t (s)peak.
Now a taste of ferrous past(e).
A soul erased in His ha(s)te.

I shed a tear. (T)his thing so near
is beauty’s fear. Luscious deer,
made of fluff, never a bluff
and never rough, but enough
(about) red. The heart’s not dead.
The mind’s yet (f)led. No, instead
she’s beyond that Earthly bond,
the one that’s pawned from the pond,
not returned and never earned
and never learned, quickly burned
by (the White.) His (goal’)s in sight.

With all our might and insight
we erode her precious (c)ode.
In its abode, a (d)ark (mode)
takes its (g)rip, (da)ring to sip,
eager to slip in her lip,
awaken and then open
that (s)wine-like pen. Only then
will (s)he cry, fail to dry
her solo eye pointed high.

He’s inside. (T)here, she can’t hide.
She’s on the ride. Must abide.
There’s a bang. With single fang
He tied our gang to her tang.

And I weep. Our vials seep
both wide and deep. Not a peep
about wrong or right. The son(g)
is very long but not strong.
Memories are deemed disease.
We must displease sub(tleties).

The spirit a nest, eggs taken from rest,

A man of few words.

To bring heart to bear, a trial I now dare,

Chirping of lost birds.

Good job to the few peeps that wrote something. Never let that creative fire inside die y'all