Red dripping lips and passion filled mist, screaming in my ears. Devours my soul and swallows me whole for another ten thousand years. 2015 - Tara Holland

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Red dripping lips and passion filled mist, screaming in my ears. Devours my soul and swallows me whole for another ten thousand years. 2015 - Tara Holland
I Love...
I love the way the sun
lights upon your golden face
as it sets low into the fading sky.
I love the sounds you make
when my teeth graze your skin
leaving red marks in their haste.
I love each breath that
escapes your pink lips while
you sleep peacefully through the night.
I love the flutter of your lashes
like butterfly wings as your eyes
open from some far-away dream.
I love the lock of chestnut hair
that falls over your furrowed brow
and hangs there silently at peace.
I love each freckle and each
mole and every little mark
on your perfect pale skin.
Most of all I love to love you
with each kiss and each sigh
with each breath and each whisper
I love
I love you
I love you…
© 2015 - Tara Holland
He told me I was more beautiful than the last sunset on the last day of your life.
Maybe I'll never be satisfied...
Blan__ks
I'm filled with blanks...
Blank spaces
I try to fill.
Blank pages
vacant and wordless.
Blank lines
that never build.
Blank mind
empty and bare.
Always a blank slate,
always wiped clean.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Violent Delights
His agony was beautiful;
watching him grimace
and furrow his brow as
he worked out some
new lick or lyric on
his Fender Mustang
was sweet torture.
Licking his lips in
time to the rhythm—
I was captivated by
each stroke across his
pink mouth that
coincided with each
strum across the strings.
Whenever he would
finally fit the last piece
into the puzzle he
would wrap his arms
around me and bury his
face in my hair, sighing
with each breath,
running his nose
along the column of
my neck until he
reached my ear and he
would start to whisper
whatever dirty little
thing came into his
perfectly depraved head.
I would smirk and
laugh at his candor,
but I gave in to every
single fantasy he
ever concocted.
Enthusiastically and with
much vigor we would
work out his frenetic
energy leftover from
working for forty-eight
hours straight on through
to the other-side until
he was wholly satisfied.
When we collapsed,
hair and lips and
fingers finally still,
we were spent and sated.
His limbs would spread
like ink and every line
on his tragically handsome
face would grow slack
with the weight of
his sleep.
Those nights were often
filled with visceral dreams,
as I lay in his bed and
in his arms draped in
his scent and his taste.
I loved him then, in
those silent moments,
after the final little
deaths had wracked
our aching bones.
I would wrap my
fingers in his hair and
kiss the tattoos down
his arm until sleep
fell over me like a veil
and my eyes succumbed
to the laws of gravity.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Lost Boy
Did I ever tell you the story
about a boy with wild hair
and half-lit eyes?
He smoked hand-rolled
cigarettes and lived in a
vintage leather motorcycle jacket.
Sometimes he was very quiet,
except for when he wasn't
and his brain sped faster
than his lips could speak.
He would rant and rave,
fingers stretching into the air
and then suddenly he'd fall
silent as if stricken by
his own heart.
His head would hang and
his eyes would fade out of view,
and those ridiculous aching
hands would rake through
his hair like his thoughts,
combing for the forgotten topic
he had almost reached, but
some wayward tangent had taken
him entirely over and ruined
his nearly lovely point.
I used to listen to him
talk for hours, but
it felt like minutes and
then he'd be gone...
outside...down the block
sucking down another smoke,
his head held low to
keep out the sun.
He was beautiful then,
but lost...adrift on some
long, forgotten sea and
alone in his head with
his grandeur, his delusions,
and his paranoia.
I dreamed of him often then,
of his face and his voice
and those fragile hands
thin as a scarecrows'.
In them, he was always
quiet and quietly smirking--
his face relaxed and
sometimes he would throw
his head back in laughter
and I would stare down
his Adam's apple as it
bobbed and stretched
from his raucous chuckle.
It was dreamland irony
that he was always happy
or at least on the brink
of happiness whenever
I thought of him...
maybe I just always hoped
for a happy ending.
The last day I saw him
it was nearing dark and
the rain was lighting
down upon his face.
He had decided to take
a train out of the city,
out of the state, and
he asked me to understand
and I smiled because
I didn't want to, but
I did.
His grateful smile
touched my lips and
then my hands before
he said goodbye.
I did not stay and
watch him go, instead
I turned to leave before
I could know whether
he glanced at me one last time.
It was better to leave it
unknown; either answer
would have hurt more
than I wanted to feel.
I drove away from him,
into the grey
and the mist, leaving
him to his dreams.
© 2015 - Tara Holland
Don't Wanna Be Your Girl - Wet
Dreams of You
i'm going to keep
dreaming of you
and imagining the
tiny smirk that rolls
across your lips and
lights up every
inch of your face.
i smile to myself
as i think of you
and i together...
all the little flickers
would envy us
because we'd burn
fierce and bright.
we would be light
and air and sun
and sweetness
blending into one
another and feeding
each other's egos
and energies until
we are consumed.
© 2014, Tara Holland
The End
T.S. Eliot wrote: This is the way the world will end not with a bang, but a whimper...
A whimper or a whisper,
a gasp, but not a scream.
One by one snuffed out
like little candles
on the sill;
now you see us,
now you don't.
The collective sigh
of our lights dying
will be the last sound
ever heard from
the world.
© 2014, Tara Holland
I've Heard It Before
"You're so beautiful..."
that's what they all say
like I should be grateful to hear it.
What does that mean anyway?
Such a shallow compliment,
I don't want to feel obliged.
Tell me I'm wise or funny,
tell me I'm mysterious
or hard to read.
Don't tell me I'm "beautiful",
that sentiment means
nothing to me.
Anyone can be beautiful
it's not something
hard to achieve...
I want to be admired
for talents or insights,
not something that
makes me feel cheap.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Letters
I wrote you a letter
to tell you I love you,
but I couldn't leave
it at your door.
I wrote you a letter
to tell you I miss you,
but I left it in a crumple
on my bedroom floor.
I wrote you a letter
to tell you I want you,
but the words just
wouldn't come out right.
I wrote you a letter
to tell you I need you,
but I didn't know
what to write.
I wrote you a letter
to tell you I'm fucked up,
but my thoughts were
too hard to share.
I wrote you a letter
to tell you I'm sorry,
but I didn't know
if you'd still care.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Mother Universe
Where the water ends
the sun rises out
of a maiden's hair,
burning gold luminescence
filtered through the
clouds in her eyes.
She yawns the sun's rays
and when it sets
she slumbers as the sky.
Wide and expansive she's
the deepest blue
like midnight, and stars
fall from her lashes
twinkling and spreading across
the inky darkness of her form.
Her limbs are mountains
and valleys and canyons,
and her blood lights the
world with color; greens and
yellows and reds splashing
the landscape she's created
from her flesh and marrow.
Her very essence breathes
all life into the cosmos
extending from her soul
and unfurling outward
into beautiful existence.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Hollow Words
All your words are empty and hollow now...
How can you convince me of your sincerity
when you can't even convince yourself?
You've been selling stories and
selling yourself for so long you
can't remember how to be genuine.
You've lost the knack for candor
like someone loses their voice.
You peddle fairy tales as gospel and
it's no wonder the deceit you've
been living in has taken over,
bleeding into your eyes that
used to be so soulful I could
always tell your lies.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Mad Ones
extravagant eccentric drinking champagne from crystal green china waving arms and nails wildly in the sky mimicking a birds' wings flapping violently against the bars of a cage...her caftan flowing in the breeze outlining her round breasts letting sunlight pour through the gossamer fabric twirling madly in her room with red lipstick on her lips and stains all over her cigarettes she lets burn away in patterned ashtrays on the nightstands and coffee tables...curls frame her angelic face and when she smiles it's broad and the light fills her eyes as she exhales smoke and goes on and on about Swiss chocolate and timepieces and Irish whiskey and Irish men whose accents brush against your flesh as they grab you from behind for another taste of skin...records play softly in the other room John Coltrane and Ella Fitzgerald and Satchmo blaring on the pipes ringing across the decrepit vaulted ceilings displaying cracked plaster and withered paint of gold and red and black...this room was alive in the 20s filled to the brim bursting with flappers and dames and jazzheads and hepcats and mobsters and decadence that doesn't exist in the modern age and she's not modern but she has charm and mystery that draws everyone into her orbit revolving around her exuberance like the planets around the sun which she adores as she swallows down more champagne shimmying out of her pearls and diamonds dripping down her back like sparkling waterfalls...there goes another cigarette to ash and she's twirling again arms outstretched wide and soaking up the rays of light putting all else into shadow and making everyone fall in love with her over and over again as the music hits the perfect rhythm and the percussion is beating inside your chest louder than your heart can beat it sweeps you up in its wild discordant haze and it's a perfect and beautiful storm of everywhere you never knew you wanted to be which only makes her laugh louder in delight and satisfaction that she's pulled back the curtain and shown you the wonder of living out loud for all to see and marvel at the light which now emits from your eyes as well as hers like stars illuminating the night joining her dizzying dance across the marble floor you burn together madly spiraling into fireworks exploding across the formless sky.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Butterfly
I yearn to be like the butterfly— winged and bright and self-actualised.
A butterfly is the pinnacle; it is not becoming, it has already become reaching its zenith.
It has shed its chrysalis metamorphosis from caterpillar to its final form as brilliant hued flying thing no longer bound by Earth’s gravity but able to soar the sky and kiss the treetops.
I yearn to be like the butterfly— free and found and beautifully alive.
© 2015, Tara Holland
Love Drug
i’m soaking my bones
with thoughts of you
and as I sink deeper
into this darkness
i’m reminded of your taste—
salt, thick…
hot and wet.
i lick my lips
at the memory
you’ve imprinted in me
and i tremble for it…
for lips and tongue
and hands on my neck
that feel the thrum
of my heartbeat
coursing through my veins.
i’m getting off on
your drug and
it’s sweeter than i
imagined it would be
which makes coming down
so much harder for
my body to maintain.
i could get addicted
to this rush and
to your smell and
the sensation of your
sweat as it drips
on to my lips and
i savor the taste.
© 2015, Tara Holland