Ricardo Sevilla's Blog

A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.

But sometimes She's lost, sometimes She's broken. Sometimes She's closed, sometimes She's open.
Sometimes She's stone cold. At times She's on fire. Mostly She's everything I desire.


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She sits here and whispers things to me. 
My eyes are dilating as the world becomes primal. 
Soft warm and wet kisses on my shoulder, and my conscience burning. 


Purple stained lips and fingernails sink into skin,
My eyes remain open as I taste her tongue.
I'm a coward, the wretched things I'm about to do.


I'm going to taste her skin
I'm going to hold her back
I'm going to spread her out


Under sheets on the bedroom floor,
with silver eyes and a fragmented heart,
I lead her to my empty dream.


Morning rays, soft breaths, and a golden necklace.
My clenching jaw, the headache pill, and my brown boots.
Disgrace and Hypocrisy greeting me at the exit door... with crooked smiles.