One Poem and One Request

[shechoselove.livejournal.com]

Beautiful by Richard Brautigan

I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
about you.

Pissing a few moments ago
I looked down at my penis
affectionately.

Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
feel beautiful.

3 A.M.
January 15, 1967


Also, does anyone have any poems that mention/allude to being apprehensive about opening up to another person or opening up to someone/making oneself vulnerable in general?

Thank you for any help. <3

Comments

[moireach.livejournal.com]

Please edit your post to include a poem, as per the community rules.

[shechoselove.livejournal.com]

Done. ;)

[mirmusing.livejournal.com]

Not sure either of these quite fit your bill - but the sentiments are similar after a fashion:



CHILDREN LEARN WHAT THEY LIVE - Dorothy Law Nolte

If a child lives with criticism,
he learns to condemn.

If a child lives with hostility,
he learns to fight.

If a child lives with fear,
he learns to be apprehensive.

If a child lives with pity,
he learns to feel sorry for himself.

If a child lives with ridicule,
he learns to be shy.

If a child lives with jealousy,
he learns what envy is.

If a child lives with shame,
he learns to feel guilty.

If a child lives with encouragement,
he learns to be confident.

If a child lives with tolerance,
he learns to be patient.

If a child lives with praise,
he learns to be appreciative.

If a child lives with acceptance,
he learns to love.

If a child lives with approval,
he learns to like himself.

If a child lives with recognition,
he learns that it is good to have a goal.

If a child lives with sharing,
he learns about generosity.

If a child lives with honesty and fairness,
he learns what truth and justice are.

If a child lives with security,
he learns to have faith in himself and in those about him.

If a child lives with friendliness,
he learns that the world is a nice place in which to live.

If you live with serenity,
your child will live with peace of mind.

With what is your child living?

Untitled - Anna Moschovakis

I can't remember what it is I'm supposed to be doing.
I can't think of anything but lists I've made, lists I've broken
the spirit of. It's always a fine time for breaking
things, like plastic forks and poetic trends.
It's a damn good morning to imitate the world.
But I can't remember what imitation is
or the difference between it and flattery
or an adage and an aphorism.
I'd better go back to school
he said, performing a gesture to alterity.
I can't remember if alterity
has negative connotations
or is just another way of kicking
myself out the door. I'd like to try being
a man for once. I'd like to wear chaps and have it
be obscene instead of pornographi. I can never remember
what I think of pornography when it isn't in my
face. I wish I could be inanimate,
banged-up and appreciated
for all my surface qualities
without ethics getting in the way. I seem to remember
being ethical. I seem to act along some kind of line
albeit a kinky one. I wonder when kinky became
pornographic and whether that aspect is
subtractable. I don't remember my grammar
rules. I don't think English is very good
for a certain kind of inventioning. I gather
some readers don't like being
confronted with the language in every word.
I want to be a word. I would be abstract
with an inscrutable ending.

[belowyourneck.livejournal.com]

I'm not sure if these are what you're looking for, but I thought they might sort of be on the right track, so why not share them? :)

First Poem for You
By Kim Addonizio

I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you

to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.


“So,”

by Philip Booth

So, there’s no way to be sure. Not
about much of anything. No more about
anyone else than ourselves. Perhaps
not even of death, except that it’s bound
to happen. To you, yes; to me, us: the lot
of humankind, given how humankind sees it
from this near side. So what.

So nothing that we here and now
can perfectly know. Save, though the lens
our eyes raise, the old here and now.
The this, the already-going that moves us.
The red-shift we’re constantly part of.
And why not? Between what we were, and
are going to be, is who and how we best love.

[lady-branwyn.livejournal.com]

Brautigan, what a braggart...

[drabheathen.livejournal.com]

Utensil by A.R. Ammons

How does the pot pray:
wash me, so I gleam?

prays, crack my enamel:
let the rust in.

*** also***

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

- Leonard Cohen