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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 13:22:06 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 115227
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => To The First Time (I Lost Control)
[time] => 2006-02-22 20:28:06
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => It's half-past nine and your parents are away. They always left you alone. That's why I'm here. Isn't it? Taking our time. Going back down memory lane. Old photographs. Places you were proud to call home. Are you home now? Or do I have to prove it to you? Just not like this. This isn't what I meant. Yeah, let's go back. I don't want to do this. This doesn't feel right. Nothing ever feels right. Not with you. Not today. I'm not ready to grow up. We're going to get caught and then you're going to blame it on the boy from the streets. Call it rape. Call it whatever the hell you want, sweetheart. Deja ***** vu. This isn't news to me. I don't want to do this. "Just relax. I love you, don't worry." Her eyes screamed, "We're young and we're in love and this is just something we have to do." We're in your basement. Where's the heart-shaped bed? The scented candles? The rose petals? The sweet nothings in my ear? Where's the ***** love? Here we go. Hold your breath. It'll all be over soon. Grey couches. Pink teddy bears. Toys being stepped on. Mainstream radio static playing my tune. Hand-me-downs draped over a chair. This isn't romance. Don't look at me like that. I feel dirty. I close my eyes. I'm expecting this to hurt more than it should. Slow and steady. Sing to me. Don't remind me of that Oasis song. You're not going to save me. You're going to ruin me. Let's just trip on your roof and giggle as we talk about how stupid Saturday morning cartoons were. Frying eggs. Nike slogans. Romper room. Jim Henson. After-school specials. Heavy breathing. I'm not doing this right. Take it slow. I Love You John You never said it with your eyes closed before... She's expecting me to recite poetry or regurgitate the lines from that cheesy romantic comedy but I'm not prepared. I dash into the bathroom and I take a quick look in the mirror hoping that somehow it would all make sense to me. It doesn't. A brief intermission with personality number two should set things right. It doesn't. Sticking my head out of the window. I need some clean air for once. Fumbling with little plastic packages. Warning labels. Soldiers at ease. "Finish what you started, John." Whispering the words to 'The Fragile'. I won't let you fall apart. I won't let you fall... Who the hell am I even talking to?! Tell me exactly what I want to hear. Round two. This time with feeling. Open windows. Radiator hums. Neatly-folded love letters in my back pocket. Lips sealed around... Muffled truths mean nothing to me. Keeping you happy. Claustrophobia. Movie magic. A dimly-lit room. That's it. Keep it up. You're doing great. You're almost home. Sweaty palms. Kissing and dancing. Kissing and touching. Clichés and tears. Toungue-tied and weak. Legs convulse to the backbeat. You're keeping warm. You're coming home. Numbing hips. Yes. I, I, I, Oh God, Yes I Love The Way You ...lie in bed. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 144 [topic] => 31 [informant] => shediesinvein [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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