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You might just be the most comfortable person in the world.
I leaned up against you
so that I could feel your heartbeat
and so that my head would rise and fall with your chest.
Your breath was warm on my head.
You pulled me closer
and
hesitantly
put your arm across my chest.
I could hear your heartbeat
perfectly in time with mine
And I swear
in that moment we were infinite.
I'd like to believe that soulmates are forever.
That you can fall in love with someone
who is meant perfectly for you.
Someone whose body fits next to yours
like two pieces of a puzzle.
Who curves in all the right places
to fit in to the gaps between your heartstrings.

A soulmate isn't forever.

But
there is a kind of intimacy that comes with being a soulmate
and it's so much more than just ***
or skin on skin
with clothes on the floor
and the lights turned way down low
and tangled sheets and secret smiles.
It's an intimacy that comes with knowing
their hopes and dreams and secrets
and
having a deep connection that can't be replaced.

Soulmates aren't forever.
But oh, how I wish they were.
I'd really like feedback on this. I wrote this after reading many poems dealing with the idea of a soulmate and I don't really even know what a soulmate is or how to find one.
Someone told me
you can't write (p)oetry ab(o)ut things
you don't want to romanticiz(e).

So for a long (t)ime
(because of w(r)ong people like (y)ou)
I d(i)dn't write drunk,
becau(s)e the(n) I c(o)uldn't
guard my feelings.

But now I'm drunk as hell
and no(t)hing in my life
is close to romantic
and I don't have to explain to you
why (b)oats, oc(e)ans, and words
are the only things
that e(a)se my open wo(u)nds.

I don'(t) have to tell you why
I don't scream or cry or f(i)ght
when I think about how many of my (f)riends
killed themselves.
I write instead,
and it's not romantic.

I am not
in love
with words.

I am
in love
with them
and they're no longer here,
breathing, holding my hand,
and singing me songs about rivers
and how we'll always find each other.

But we won't,
because there's not a
single f(u)cking romantic thing
about how I'll never hold their hands
again.

So I drink,
and I write,
and I do not (l)isten
to people like you.
 Feb 2014 Ian Cairns
sara burns
There was something about her
that stilled a room,
that stopped them dead in their tracks
and pulled them into the eye of her storm,
confused them
so their focus landed on sweaters and hairstyles;
and they never put it together,
never pieced you into her puzzle
and ever acknowledged
that the way she wore you,
the way she draped your gaze across her chest,
proud, like quiet couture,
was what made her startling to watch.
Because it’s my birthday I thought I’d release something I was keeping for myself. Enjoy.

On this red planet,
Alone I stand in the vastness
of this scenery in purgatory.
Alone I stand long,
alone I stand king
of this terrain.
With this, something like a kiss,
the way its skin caresses my toes
as they work its way through
the pink sand;
With this I have reached my peak.
I have reached transcendence.
There are no more epiphanies to be had --
I have reached my goal.
Come to terms with my purpose on Earth,
I have sampled ulterior extracts,
while my earthly self does what it does best.
Still the 'Q' I question existences trifles.
Straying from the path crafted by man's willingness to obey.
Now the 'X' I exploit the fact
time is no longer a burden.
Freedom, like raw diamonds
flows through my fingers,
sweat falls upwards and side to side,
and gravity is now an illusion of memory.
This Roman god of war,
bends freely to my will...
Shifting, moulding and grafting into more
than the Earth could ever behold.
This place is not to share,
not this everlasting pink beach with no ocean,
this is mine
and mine alone –
this type of poem is new to me
as fresh as stale Olde English
the malt is flowing into me
and soon we'll both be finished

the cheapest of the bottom shelf
this poem is an insult
to Shakespeare and his flock of elves
it mocks their olden art

Elizabeth would have my head
hung in her court for sport
and so it is with heart of dread
I offer this retort

be weary of the ancient forms
they come with hidden ancient norms
this was SO hard. I swear when making this insult and art rhymed in my head lol
me & mine, you & yours
ego often de-vou-ers
the right intentions are left to die
in crossroad streets with blurred out lines
the 'I' of the storm is calm but unclear
swayed by petty winds of fear
me & mine, you & yours
'I' alway(s) win(s) in ego wars
the battlefields are laced with bias
mine -fields that cannot deny us
me & mine, you & yours
I'll sit this out, it ain't my course
6 minutes. I write seriously slow...and think at that pace too. My most recent poem has been a work in progress for going on two weeks now
 Feb 2014 Ian Cairns
Dougie Simps
Focus* on self identity
Leave regrets in the past
Greet positivity
Take in the moments that last
Discover growth
Bury a seed
Stop asking for wants
Look for your needs
Embrace love
Ignore hate
Chase away evil
Follow your faith
Begin each day on purpose
End each night with new gaurenttees
Quit on self doubt
Start with "I can achieve"
Food for thought
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